Breathe

breatheThis poem is an exercise in creating scenes with strong sensory information.

Breathe.

Fill your nostrils with the smokey scent of your neighbor’s barbecue.

Breathe.

Listen to the rustle of pine needles brushing against each-other in the breeze.

Breathe.

Soak in the starlight slowly spinning in the dark blue sky.

Breathe.

Fill yourself with the peace of knowing the Universe always provides.

Similar Posts

  • Nightmare

    For this poem, I created a specific syllable structure. It another experiment in structured poetry. It is not based on a real dream. I dreamed I was in a desert, alone. The wind swept dust all about me, but I was safe, in a cone of light and cool wind. Then I was in a…

  • Breathless

    Recently I was blessed to experience a connectedness with another person that was so intense it took my breath away. It was a connectedness I haven’t felt in a very long time (if ever). It was a connectedness that was spiritual, emotional and physical all at the same time. And, for the past two weeks…

  • My Love

    This poem was written in February 1988 during a time when I was writing a lot of love poetry. My Love is as sweet as      the nectar of the honeysuckle      the laughing call of gulls      the soft breath of a babe He is as pleasant as      the sun upon my back      the wind in my…

  • I Stand Alone

    This was written May 18, 1984. I stand alone, as I always will. Friends come and go, but all the while I stand alone. Just a molecule of air, am I, tossed about by the wind. I see, and know,           and love                others but they go and I see, know and love                more. Always there…

  • Show the World a Grin

    1983 was a year a great angst for me. I wanted so much to have a boyfriend … didn’t happen. I was having issues with friends … my ADD-induced social cluelessness didn’t help. So, a lot of my poetry from that year deals with love and frustration and teen angst. This poem is no different….

  • The Carver

    Written in 1983. The wooden chips float to the floor at each stroke of the blade. The gnarled, old hands shape the stick of wood with an expertise only acquired with time. The metamorphosis of the wood is slow and subtle. but as time progresses a figure seems to come alive. A figure of an…