Tag: poem

poetry, writer, writing

Saturday at the Blue Owl

Kelly Rogers

I came here to talk about love and those broken years we stayed apart.

We were sisters back then, giggling over two cups of coffee.

Now we are strangers to our newfound intricacies,

staring into the frothy abyss.

I want to tell you about the times I thought of calling you.

Could my words be a salve on our fracture?

A bandage between our past and future?

We are silent for a moment as the girl places a malcontent order,

full of demands, and then regrets over what she did not add to her latte.

I am full of the empty space you left in my heart those years ago.

Our bond was born from the tragedy of September 11.

You knew what to say to me as if we had been childhood friends.

You picked me up off the floor as I wept over a broken marriage.

You cheered me on as I returned to fix it.

You rushed to my aid as I had three kids.

I tried to fill your heart with the things it might be missing.

Then all that business about nothing ground us to dust.

And our friendship became the tragedy,

replacing the one from which our sisterhood was born.

Now here we sit on an overstuffed couch, a fine mist of milk in the air,

surrounded by people in search of Saturday’s buzz.

I came here to talk about love. I came here to love you again.

poetry, writer, writing

Morning Mourning

Kelly Rogers

I mourn in the morning,

When no one can see.

The French press of my emotions,

Coursing through me.

My tears awake,

As the moon goes to sleep.

But when the sun says hello,

I cease to weep.

For the day returns in glory,

Calling me to live.

I tuck away day-sleeping sorrow,

For the joy I have yet to give.

I mourn in the morning,

When no one can see.

My now past yields to my present.

I am once again free.

musician, poetry, writer, writing

Snow at Dusk

Kelly Rogers

The steady fall along my wall leads to the end of day.

Frigid flakes coagulated atop the fertile ground of Spring exhibit their intricate glory.

Inside, I make dinner. I’m safe. It’s warm.

Dusk brings warning of a night from which I must hide. Or must I?

The only light is the crisp white of the snow out my front door.

The steady hum of plows is a clockwork announcement of the burden of today.

Do I dream of the melt of it all?

Or do I let myself be numbed by the cold, hypnotic beauty of snow at dusk?

Instead I dream that I am a snow crystal floating in the air, landing with the other crystals on the blanket we make as we go.

fiction, poetry, writer, writing

The Artist’s Way: Day Two Morning Pages

Kelly Rogers

Note: I decided to remain true to the Artist’s Way journey and handwrite my morning pages. I don’t know what pushed me to reconsider other than a desire to accept what I don’t know and immerse myself in it. I was inspired to write this after my morning pages today.

The Bird at My Window

A bird came to my frosted window this morning.

I looked at it through the broken glass of frozen crystals creeping along the pane.

Its pin beak was a needle meant for nectar not ice.

Its song was desperate.

Shall I let it in?

Its song was insistent.

Shall I respond to its plea?

Its song was just a song, meant for the sky, not me.

A bird came to my snow globe window this morning, and it wanted nothing but to sing.

poetry, writer, writing

winter soul

Kelly Rogers

I am the last piece of tinsel clinging to the fir that’s about to return to the earth

I am the first bud fighting activation by the sunshine I know is forgetting the last snow

I am the shade, the single cloud, the arch of a tree, providing respite from the dry heat

I am the first leave to turn on the branch and the last to fall, stretching on the way down towards peace on frosted ground

I am the first crystal to form in the sky, willingly joining other crystals, ready to find my place in a snow angel

I am a winter soul, an arctic fox, a counter of stars under the frigid night sky

musician

Tired

Kelly Rogers

When you are the kind of tired sleep won’t fix

And your second hand is stuck but it still ticks

When you’ve lost your bookmark in a breeze

And you need a prayer after life has brought you to your knees

When you try to drive forward while in park

And you are in a story that has no discernible arc

Look up to the sky, you are kissed by the sun

Look down at your feet where two puppies run

You are here now, a gift, tired or not

Breathe it in, breathe it out, give it all you’ve got

poetry, writer, writing

Fall Falls

Kelly Rogers

The crunch of the grass under my feet

Crystal shards freezing each blade in time, if only for the morning

The chill on my cheeks, making me wish I had lingered over coffee longer

I pull my jacket together as if I am making it stronger

I walk down the road, my rhythm set by birds conferring

They are gathered for their annual convention to leave this place

They want a sun that warms each feather

I want crisply coated air delivered by this weather

My friends laugh that I am made for scarves and sweaters

As I wrap up, they lament the loss of sandy toes and margaritas

I have the gift of knowing Lake Michigan’s cold sand

As Fall falls, those once summer waves still crash upon the land

musician

Written Words

Kelly Rogers

I read to taste life twice.

I write to channel imagination’s vice.

The words they flow, and stories they sew, leaving me in the grips of night.

As the pages by wind turn

Off the paper, love creates a burn

The hero becomes a villain while the air, bone-chilling, sends a shiver to the edge of the spine

From beginning to end

The chapters maliciously mend

Any trace of a shred, of who I was before bed, and wake me new in the morn.