Posted in Poems, tagged 2010, hand, winter on 21 January 2010 | 5 Comments »
Winter’s wain
I wasn’t the first one she chose.
I was the first to offer my hand to hold.
Nearly was a whole lifetime in between.
Children, three of them, a house, in green.
Words enough to overflow a bowl.
Yet light of leaf, dry before a wind.
Meaning wanted something more.
Laughter to erupt quietly from eyes?
Like winter takes something away,
roosted in, held close to breast.
Fearlessly I might just pray,
I am the last and full.
My hand like rain received.
Neil Reid © January 2010
Posted in Poems, tagged 2009, Poems, rain, winter on 22 December 2009 | 4 Comments »
When you love me like rain
When you love me like rain,
winter comes. Running before
the wind is an easy stance.
That shadow cast turns warm
beneath the sheets.
Then turn on an old elbow,
an aching arm, rotate that
slumbered breath clear around,
full face into unspoken storm.
How far will this gale score
its trace across a linen sea?
I can but say, I am this needle
and thread by thread.
Splintered rain says most
to me, where I roost.
Walk with me.
Neil Reid © December 2009
Posted in Poems, Writing Prompts, tagged 2009, moon, Poems, Prompt, RWP, winter on 14 December 2009 | 41 Comments »
Says Deb, This week brings a different kind of Read Write (Word) Prompt. These words are from the first stanza of one of my favorite poet’s work. I’ll tell you who it is, and give you a link to the poem these words are derived from next week, in the Get Your Poem On post. (I know. I’m a tease. It’s from writing sexy poems this week, so don’t blame me. OK?)
To write to this prompt, pick as many (or few) of these words as you want and write a poem using them. (Here’s the some I selected to use.)
(Read the prompt and see the list of words here.)
(Read other participants response to this prompt.)
Winter pebbles
Moon might not see me
rise this morn. Clouds
are a shell in between.
Stars blush a tempest cloak.
Trees undress the lowland fog.
Take this broth and bright.
Curled upon my lap
a homeless wind, abiding
curves no night will keep.
It wasn’t a poem then.
It isn’t one now.
It was just a road
that moved inside of me.
Away from you.
Meteors that will not land
till pierced, reflect in you.
Precious moon.
Neil Reid © December 2009
Posted in Poems, Poesia ciotola, tagged 2009, fingers, winter on 30 September 2009 | 2 Comments »
Winter tales
Today I walk all the way to meet your train.
We made it eight miles down the trail, hopping
like toads into new winter rain.
Your flannel shirt, your white buttons undone.
Miles away, driving snow in my truck, no heat,
we wiped our breath from the road.
Another hundredth poem no one will ever
write. Jeans are like tangled tussled ink.
You comment about how close I sit to you.
I thought about you for hours at home.
But I’ll tell you the thing that impressed me
most. The way you shuffled my fingers
in yours. Unkempt. Adored.
Neil Reid © September 2009
we write poems margo roby, wordgathering good universe next door irene, lost in translation brenda warren elizabeth crawford
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