The Perfect Poem

The perfect poem

is without words.

It is heard within the cries of lovers,

legs entwined

like trees,

limbs reaching roots,

climbing vines

towards heaven.

It is the sun-dappled dawn,

rich and vibrant,

like cheeks rising

as apples, ripe.

It is the laughter of children,

encrypted within chalk lines on sidewalks,

where no words are spoken,

and no language exists.

It is the heart, racing,

through atria and ventricles,

pumping blood to breath.

The perfect poem

is you,

perfect,

poem.

A Thousand Words

I can write one million poems
describing the sweet breath of breeze,
like peaches in summertime,
how they cool your brow and palette
on a day that is sweltering,
simultaneous.

I can write of how the speech of our ancestors
can never suffice to explain the thoughts
that explode inside my brain,
like atoms, splitting, supernovas in space,
constellations ablaze, neurons sounding and resounding
across synapses,

like trapeze artists on tripwires.

I can write of the speech of animals,

foreign to the human sense of sound,

and how only they comprehend,

what they say to one another.

I can even write of God and the heavens,
the beauty of the skies at dawn and sunset,
colors yet undiscovered, painted for us all,

daily.

I can write of it all, a thousand words describing everything.

Yet not one word or poem

can ever compare
to the softness of your gaze,

like the canvas of the morning tide,
or your silent roar

not unlike that of the mighty lion,
or precisely how your spirit connects

to my very own.

I can write of it all, mere words.

I can write one million poems.

Yet, not one can ever truly describe

you.

Shahada

My spirit knows your own, brother
who is my friend
and my love,
yet you are my brother
here and now.

Gabriel placed a solitary feather
of majestic angels’ wing
upon both of our foreheads,
gifted us with sight
to show what could be
and cannot.

My brother, do you realize
how I know you,

as I do not even know myself

as you know me,
as you do not know yourself.
Look, look into a mirror,
there I am in your eyes,
deep concentric pools of truth
lie beauty.

We have been gifted with understanding
a treasure princes and kings
have fought and perished for,
centuries past,
connected as such now.

I am oceans away, my brother,
who is my friend, yet my love.

My spirit knows your own,
brother.

 Susan Marie has just published a book of poems “Shahada”  with Driftwood Press, Buffalo, New York

ISBN-10: 1975992024

ISBN-13: 978-1975992026

Available in paperback or Kindle at Amazon and we’re sure Talking Leaves probably has it, as well.

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