Dragon Fire

 

They tell me
to write a poem about love,
And I find myself without the words for it.pen-and-paper-writing-9349790-1024-768.jpg

Me pen is parched and dry of ink,
unwilling to kiss the paper,
And who am I to force it to?

They tell me
to write a poem about love,
And I am a ship plagued by doldrums.

A vessel with sails aplenty
but they are apathetic and unwilling to billow.
And who am I to command them to?

They tell me
to write a poem about love,
And I find myself crafting countless metaphors.

All are means to disguise,
all to hide the fact,
I do not want to.

I have known
the kind of love
They want to see.

That love is hot;
full of infernos and tornados and heat.
It is a love birthed in dragon fire.

But every dragon
I have tried to tame
Has left me charred and choking on lies.

I am scared to fight those beasts again.background_fire_theme_by_lockeliefather-d85ka9h

They tell me
to write a poem about love,
And I find myself defensive.

Not because I am scared of love.

But because I fear what happens
when the flames shrivel and die.

When there is nothing but ash.
When I am nothing but ash.

I am not scared of love,
But I do fear dragons
And the two are cousins at the best of times,

They tell me
to write a poem about love,
And I can feel the sparks kindling

in ashes I swore
were too cold to burn.
And who am I to stop them from lighting?
And who am I to let them?

Please forgive my apprehensions,
but I am tired of setting myself on fire
for people who will only watch me burn
and call me beautiful for it.aruba-caves

They told me
to write a poem about love,
and I am unsure if it fills me up or leaves me echoing.

I find myself walking
towards the caves
where lizards larger than life lay waiting.

I have been bitten by their kind before.
yet I can’t help but be optimistic
That this dragon will not to bite.

Photography and Other Arts

Author’s Note: This is the first piece of poetry I have ever had published. It was published in Polar Expressions Publishing’s poetry anthology ‘Insight’ in the early spring of 2014. 


1388978_origI fall in love in a series of snapshots.
Quick pictures taken of you when you think no one else is looking.
My eyes are the camera lens,
my brain the film your image is pressed upon,
And my heart is a scrapbook littered with stolen photos of you.

The first time I see you, you’re like a sunset on an ocean backdrop.
Bleeding fiery oranges and reds into a sky that has only ever known a million shades of blue.
You are art in a case and as I press my fingertips firmly against the glass,
I finally understand what they mean when they say
the Mona Lisa really is smiling just for me.

Being with you is living in an ever-playing symphony. Every second a new trill of notes is played,
more brilliant and beautiful than the last.
The fingers that I cannot quite grasp pluck the air like harp strings.
I know were those same fingertips dance across my body,
I would sing for you like a fine-tuned piano.

But falling out of love is like reading the plot to a drugstore paperback tragedy.
Slow, painfully so, and completely predictable
Almost as if the author had grown weary of their work halfway through
The plot is bled dry of emotions and it overlays within itself,
nothing more than a tired, faded echo.

And as I flip through the scrapbook I almost drowned to protect
From the rising tide of loneliness and contempt
I find its pages are already soggy and water-stained with an overflow of emotion.
I see nothing but faded photos with faces smudged out
And the backgrounds blurred.