i long to hear the nightingale sing..

barren tree

I miss him
he was the poet in my poetry
the leaves of my poet tree;
and now this winter is so barren.

I miss him
like the flowers miss the springtime
like the nightingale misses  its song;
and this silence is a deafening cacophony.


I miss him
and I long to hear the nightingale sing
rather than recall it from memory..
before it becomes an unfamiliar fragrance
in my garden.


I miss him.

He waxes and wanes..


Did you hear the one about the girl
Who fell in love with a boy who was in love with the world

In transience his passions  reside
They come and they go with the swing of the tide

A sun reflecting one side of the moon
He waxes and wanes and leaves too soon

No face and no name
It matters not, they’re all the same

If only he would linger
but he possesses a poet’s finger

He cannot stay, he seeks inspiration
Seeking sustenance from other’s adulation