We are the Curators of Our Own Lives Pt3


Imagination under Improvisation Vol1

Let My Children Hear Me

I am living
In uncharted poetry —
Just a month past a year
Without my
There aren’t enough words
To say how I
Miss her.

She comes & goes
Like a gypsy in my soul
Regularly visiting
The music of my mind
(Where the notes
Of my
Remembrances of her
Fittingly intact)

Especially when I
Am deep in daydream
Envisioning her
Perched like a star
On a spiral staff keeping tabs
On everything, even the wandering souls
Filled with the language
Of the unheard, emerging
From the margins
Carrying out the will
Of a righteous riot, all
The while singing
Unsung lullabies through her
Laughing eyes, for I know
She left the best of herself in me.
& she’d be happy to know
My sister & I still
Hear her.

©2019 MDSHall


Things Left Unsaid (re:Vision)

As the black rose
Into the night’s deepest
Of midnight blue

With its looming
Show of lights, I

Wait in vain
Perchance to dance
On the sunny
Side of the street
At dawn, or

Recollect & reflect in retrospect:

Nights are but sermons
To be streamed
In this requiem
To a dream, with

Drawn from wondrous dust
On shadows of the moon
As past, present
And future ferment
Like grapes
“In the twilight
Of perpetual noon”

By the revenant vox
Of wordshippers to come

Through The static
And the hum, out from
Under the umbra
Like a beacon
Of life shining in the darkest
Of light, communing
With kindred souls
In search of the other
Side, speaking truth
To power rather than letting
The things left unsaid
Fade into oblivion
Or die with the setting sun.

©2018 MDSHall