electric

when the wind blows hot and warm
and sweet, like this, and a rabid sky is filling
with the darkness of desire, i know
i cannot stay.
when sullen leaves from discarded trees
are plotting maps in the thickened air,
and the bruising cloud begins to crack with
neon bone break, i know
i will not stay.
and when the fractured breath is swelling
with the spice of almost,
i'm already leaving
to find that place
where madness meets half-way
where 2 halves are more than one
where desire becomes itself
where nothing else makes sense
where ordinariness ends
where the point of being begins
the place where rain is born.


by Lorna Goodman | Poetry Home | Next 

nostalgia

ephemeral by nature, these are the
things you cannot hold. memory.
a fragrance, a song, a turn of phrase
a place, a face, a time of day.
blooming suddenly around
unexpected corners,
these are the wildflowers
of your past.
and you may water them with sadness,
and you may prune them with regret,
even feed them with the sunlight
of a long and lingering affection.
but like the flowers
that will eventually fade and fold,
this transience,
these things... you cannot hold.


by Lorna Goodman | Poetry Home | Previous