Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews


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Gossamer Whimsy

Once half-full
or conversely vacant
fearful of change yet admonishing stagnation
the glass rests paradoxically empty
silent as infinity or the space
between these ears
where nature
in despising a void
might seek to refill
with understanding more substantial
than gossamer wings
and whimsy.

SSMatthews 4/25/18

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A Bridge to Cross

One dream ago
I misplaced my path
And wandered through a fog,
To where chanting winds
Sing rocks to sand
As beds of ancient soil.

Scorched by fears
And worries of frost,
I happened upon myself
Sitting silent drinking sky
Not caring what was lost.

I rose and looked me in the eye
Then with familiar hands,
Spun an arcing thin mirage
To poise across the span.

This bridge above the arid waste
Of all my secret strife,
Forms within and flows without
To an oasis I call life.

No spoken word said I to me
But something was revealed.
Across the bridge, myself then walked
The rest my lips conceal.

But of the flower I must tell
Which thrives in barren soil,
Beneath a sky that never rains
On a land of ceaseless toil.

SS Matthews