Petrichor

Golden morning breaks –
New life, encapsulated
By shadows, illuminated.

You can smell the earth
So much more clearly
After rain.
A turn down
An unfamiliar lane.

A new path, hiking
Vast forests of pine –
They are breathing.
Dry needles and thistle aplenty;
Watch for the sharp
Prickles and barbs.

Leaning into the pain,
The imperfect afternoons:
Blissful at times.
Dissolving into rich
Orange hues.

A forge of blue metal
Lays cooling, tonight.
Souls clenched tight;
Entrenched, dug in.

A white flag raised –
Prematurely, perhaps…
A surrender inside
That vacant stare.

Twilight sits inside
Your sinking eyes
As I look to the sky.

The light dances lithly
Amidst the clouds,
While a solitary
church bell sings

As birds
And the horizon
Seem inextricably tied together,
Chasing that freedom together
To far away places.

I write with the hope
That these words will spring
Tendrils, climb up from seeds
That lay inside your heart.

Grow up over spaces
That have gone dry,
Turned cold.

Morphing from brown
To green,
In those neglected crevices
Of your being.

City Bright Lights, Vol. 1

cropped-philly-skyline-1.jpeg

Image

Things Change

On any given day,
In the heat of a summer’s sway.
Things change.

That’s just how it is, right?
Nothing gold can stay.
At least, that’s what one 
Of my favorite poet’s would say.

The hair on my head.
The hair on my face.

“The Times” headlines,
My heart’s beating pace.

Sirens and loud noise
Quiet and deep space

Things change. 
Does anything truly stay the same?

The Seasons

Beneath,
Between.

Cicada
Dream.

Summer
Fall,

Winter
Spring.

The Moment You Can’t Ignore

Puzzle the black
Embrace the abyss
Become your truth
And learn to fish

To pen your thoughts
Now that is a bold-faced dream!
So grip the seasons
And welcome trades winds –
Yes, come along with me

To watch words swirl, across the world
And awaken a smile in a Parisian girl,
Then chase down a Dublin sunrise
And find their way back to a building
Nestled between Pines

Skeletal images
Turned blood and flesh
A wandering hidalgo
On a chivalric quest

A man with no name
A tiring friend
A red-haired sprite hums
Where lives never end

A song for the ages,
An immigrant sings
The flip of fresh pages,
A sorrowful king.

A ranger in a tavern
Rising from his quiet post,
Returning to his heritage
Of which he knows the most

All of these places
Faces, and things
In search of the power
Of an ancient ring

But in the end
The journey’s the prize
It wasn’t the ring that you waited for –

Three cheers for 28 years
These moments you can’t ignore.

What You Can Do

If only you knew
Just what you could do
When you’re just being you
And you’re doing the best
That you can do.

Still Searching

Peaking over the rusted metal stands
to the leafy ground below.

In the distance, the point of a citadel
stings, as church bells ring.

The search for solid ground –
for knowing without garishly showing,
for dreaming without sleeping;

This balance that eludes
the most agile tightrope walkers.

The shadow of a guardian,
the one behind the nostalgic lens.

One day, these two will be
more than good friends.
More than just cousins.

Brothers, perhaps –
Yes, they will have
their struggles.

Red-coated anger.
Green and grey envy.

But this bond
must not be broken.

Still searching.

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2011

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