A Titleless Poem


A Titleless Poem

Somehow you are too bare and raw
without a name
Emptied of a banner over you
Hold a quiet pause
as if your very breath
You appear to
Come to me as
All the unknown people
I have never met
Wrapped in a place that holds
The unmarked spot
Like the tombs of soldiers
Never named
Known only

So I will name you
With what I have been given too
Embrace you with my words
Call you all the Grace that ever lived
Poured down from Heaven, unto the Earth
Transform you with vibrant
Pantone color of the year
Shade you with every one
All life and color that has come before
Pull you into the company
Of those who share the name
What a name can do

Grace looks good on you


Joining my friend Laura and her beautiful community

Lasso The Sky, The Land, The Sea


Lasso The Sky


There have lived and breathed  Da Vinci and Galileo
Have viewed the sky, beheld the world, drawing mystery from thin air
Discovering wonder, pulling at the thread,
Unraveling infinite
Cousteau dove deep, strapped on oxygen rising up again
Popping through the curtain
Where air and sea meet
Proclaiming what was deep
Under the sea

And there lives a girl
Unknown to billions
Known only by a few
Who dreams only of lassoing the sky
By night
And the land by day
Roping all beauty and pulling it in
Drawing a noose around it all
With ampersands
She loves the and

It will take all her words
Each one she knows
And then some more
To capture all the loose and lovely
Wrangle it into place
With her pen
On a page
Captured for all time
In the lines
Of poetry

Thoreau knew too
Of what runs wildly through her mind
The thought of heaven over head and under feet
He said it lovely
Plain poetic
All the same

And she, the one whose heart aches
Burns maybe with mad desire
To scribe it down
Tangled up in words that hang around awhile
This late longing
Born from who knows where
To paint the beauty with her words

Will go on digging deep
Writing out her art
In broken, wounded

To the unknown one who has a deep and curious desire
To lay their eyes upon the page of words which tell

She’ll pen it down
Glued, stuck together by copious amount
Of ands.

So she will dream and play
And wrestle
Day by day with an imaginary pen
The noisy one that’s shaped in tiny squares
From A to Z with symbols
Her much beloved and

The sky, the land, the sea
All beauty
Gently showing it
Struggling not to tell
In busted prose
And broken phrase
In the girl’s own
Winsome style
Wordy way
Never hoping to be Wordsworth or Thoreau
Oliver or Collins
Or even Tretheway

Just an obscure writer
Who found some joy
Playing with her beloved

Poetry. Ah, she asks at the end.
Do you believe all of this?

The mystery of poetry.



Linking my words with Laura Boggess