Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on August 29, 2018 by Plathinson

At the sight of you draping over,
the lullaby is most seen than heard.
Nothing compares to the comfort
of tucking me into bed.

I am one with you:
Footprints are embedded in yours.
Who can ever tell I am you or you, me?
Even I can’t.

In you this wakefulness:
calm as the lake,
quiet as the mute—
snoring and bruxism.

This I tell time:

If you fly on your own
to dawn,
make it fast
to dusk.

© Gheeneil



Posted in Haiku with tags , , , on July 19, 2018 by Plathinson

One lone ant munching
on salt with its feet mired down
like roots of white oak.

© Gheeneil


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on July 13, 2018 by Plathinson

We had flown so many kites:
a lifetime of resisting a day’s quiet passing.
Cunning fingers around the line, manning
albeit without counting how many actually soared
in the waking.

In moments when they flew highest,
our spirits came with them,
dancing gracefully without the string,
and, sometimes, really just

We were just that—
A couple of souls
that couldn’t be stilled.

And when I felt like the rain cloud,
you would play wind;
—ever playful
—ever teasing.

© Gheeneil


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on May 24, 2018 by Plathinson

When you dig in too deep
that you cannot feel your tongue
getting all the dirt onto your lips,
like some trumpet,
you know a good puke.

Tell me,
just how many others
are holding their chin up
while licking his shallow footprints

© Gheeneil


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 21, 2018 by Plathinson

Had you not heard
the pounding of footfalls on pebbles?
Didn’t wind get the word to you?

I was not the loudest among cacophonies
and I brought nothing but monochrome years
in a birth suit, would you ever notice my bronze?

My feet said hello to the same grains that welcomed
everyone else’s foot soles; my toes, the most excited
for nature’s primitive greeting.

’twas such a grueling walk from Sahara
and that ebbing tide— your classic tale—
paled before a lifetime’s worth of footprints.

I never resented the moon
because you were not meant to stay immobile
nor was I destined to play logs along your shoreline.

© Gheeneil


Posted in Favorites with tags , , on April 16, 2018 by Plathinson

This is another favorite of mine. Jennifer Denrow’s piece of poetry from the collection California.

You were the white field when you handed me a blank
sheet of paper and said you’d worked so hard
all day and this was the best field you could manage.
And when I didn’t understand, you turned it over
and showed me how the field had bled through,
and then you took out your notebook and said how each
time you attempted to make something else, it turned out
to be the same field. You worried that everyone
you knew was becoming the field and you couldn’t help
them because you were the one making them into fields
in the first place. It’s not what you meant to happen.
You handed me a box of notebooks and left. I hung the field
all over the house. Now, when people come over, they think
they’re lost and when I tell them they’re not, they say they’re
beginning to feel like the field and it’s hard because they know
they shouldn’t but they do and then they start to grow whiter
and whiter and then they disappear. With everyone turning
into fields, it’s hard to know anything. With everyone turning
into fields, it’s hard to be abstract. And since I’m mostly alone,
I just keep running my hand over the field, waiting.



Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 13, 2018 by Plathinson

You and I: a couple
of straight lines—
too close to a point
from a distance.

© Gheeneil