Not My Fault

It's hardly my fault
that he leaves her
wandering
along the beach at night
in her tattered wedding gown,
faded with age.
It's hardly my fault
that she cries
whenever she looks
at the paled line
around her ring finger,
the empty space stained
with the dreams
he snatched away.
And it's hardly my fault
that his feet
have retraced their steps
to the place where we met
and that he has gently lain his head
on my breast
and taken his last breath
wrapped
in my arms.


© JMariah, 2011

Cold Night

Water marks dot the cheeks
that roll over against a pillow.
Sheets divide
in the middle of the night
and a leg is exposed to the cold.
A sniffle echoes
into the dark,
and eyes clamp a tight hold
on a dream
she can't let go.


© JMariah, 2011

The Sound Of Their Moment

There's a stirring in the night
where images come together
and bump into each other.
They are blind to the light
and fall away so quickly
that lightning
flashes between the dust
of their falling.

Hands come together in a hush,
whispering their groans
to the wind,
afraid of the after effects
of their touch. They are brave,
but pull away
when eyes scan their moment
from the present
and demand a reason
for the games they ignite between them.

And it is night now.

Sounds move against the sheets
that rub against bare skin,
where she is still watching;
she is still asking questions
and wanting the riding to stop.

She sleeps.
And images come together against the night.
They clash against her thinking
and insight night terrors.
She knows me,
though we've never met.


© JMariah, 2011

Only Words

Faded moments, misplaced bliss,
fate has destined us to this.

Empty arms hide tear-filled eyes,
over-analyzing lies.

Shadows fall on quiet hips,
broken dreams part thirsting lips.

Loneliness has creased the brow -
Only words between us now.


© JMariah, 2010

The Thought Of you

I've forgotten the skills needed
to turn the memory of you
out of my mind.
It's just there,
lingering in open space,
hovering overhead,
refusing to be quiet.

It calls to me,
slow and deliberate,
so my heart splits open
all over again,
my eyes burn.

It sings the songs that bring moments
up from their resting place
and sways me
to the notes that once guided your hands
over the curves
of my waiting flesh.

Their words are warped now
distorted by the silence,
the space that stretches wide
and wider between us,
where the thought of you
hovers overhead
with nowhere else to go.


© JMariah, 2010

Name It After Me

I laugh.

And the place inside me that jiggles with the sound
pretends to be happy.
It throws my head back and puts a twinkle in my eye,
and ignores the voice that asks
how dare I think myself a poet.

I heard today that a famous children’s writer
admitted to depression, cocaine and alcohol abuse,
and still he is getting a school named after him.

I wonder if I admit to being a mimic
and to not being able to churn out anything
unique from my pen,
that I’ll have something named after me.

Just a thought...

© JMariah, 2010

He's In Denial

Nothing seems to have been 'spilling over' for some time now. I've been enjoying some serious reading time, but I miss my pen-and-paper dates. Here's a raw poem that spilled out of me today.

He's In Denial

He lifts his hands to his ears
to refuse the words
we'd spoken so many times
before.
Now,
as if repulsed
by the images they conjure up,
he squeezes his eye lids shut.
He clamps his lips closed
tight,
then a tear
betrays him.

© JMariah, 2010