Easter Sunday 2014 by BJ Neblett

A beautiful sunny Sunday can do wonders for the spirit and the muse and the memory. As you enjoy this Easter Sunday, please enjoy this special new poem.
Peace,
BJ

Easter Sunday, 2014

BJ Neblett

© 2014

I bought a bouquet

of tulips yesterday.

They reminded me of you.

The farmer’s market

where I bought them

was busy with people.

But the man selling the

tiny donuts you loved

wasn’t there.

So I had a bagel

with my Sunday paper

at Starbucks.

I placed the flowers in a vase

next to the picture

of you at the tulip

festival last year.

It made me smile.

When I returned home

from shopping

I thought you were here.

But it was just the scent

of the flowers.

It made me dream

of you again.

The pillow where

you lay your head

remained cold and barren.

I bought a bouquet

of tulips yesterday.

They reminded me of you.

Today I threw them

in the trash.

                 Seattle, WA

                 April, 2014

Life by BJ Neblett

Life

by BJ Neblett

© 2009, 2013

Eyes that open

            See

            Wonder

            Eyes that are searching

Eyes that question

            Plead

            Demand

            Eyes that are misunderstood

Eyes that spark

            Flash

            Burn

            Eyes that are jaded

Eyes that pry

            Scold

            Accuse

            Eyes that are troubled

Eyes that speak

            Curse

            Lie

            Eyes that are lost

Eyes that long

            Hope

            Hurt

            Eyes that are ignored

Eyes that fear

            Hide

            Pray

            Eyes that are forgotten

Eyes that remember

            Cry

            Dim

            Eyes that are closed

A Couple of Very Special Poems by BJ Neblett

Hi again and thanks for visiting. Here are a few recently inspired poems and musings. Enjoy and be sure to 'like' 'link' and comment. Also, I have two new stories published on Short Story Me. The link is below. Thanks.
BJ
Short Story Me: Short Story Me
Poems

© 2013

If I had kissed you
Tell me what would you have done
Kiss me back or run


                                             Loving you is like walking between raindrops


                   Specter of my dreams
                   She comes to me in the night
                   Love I'll never know


Though we never kissed
Of all my loves come and gone
I miss you the most


                                   Would you hold gently
                                   If I reached to take your hand
                                   Would you understand

Guest Poet CA Griffin

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!
I know it has been a while and I apologize. But what I have for you today will more than make up for the gap in posting. CA Griffin is someone I recently met and a very talented writer and poetess. I was so impressed by her work I have decided to post one of her works here, along with a link to her blog. You can find some of her stories along side of my own at: www.short-story.me Enjoy and be sure to link and comment, both here and on Ms Griffin’s sites.
BJ
CA Griffin Blog: http://justaroundthewaygirl.blogspot.com

Private Storm
by CA Griffin
© 2011

I was in my quiet existence
Reveling in the calm from within
Then I felt the wind pickup, baby
And I knew your love storm was about to begin
I felt the slightest tremble in my legs
As my heart confirmed it was true love that I found
That’s when I saw your approach and I started to lose ground
I was swept up in the wind of your embrace so I held on fast
But as you sent a rain of sweet kisses all over me
I gave in and let go of the hurt from my past

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me

Ooh ooh stop right there right there.
I don’t think I’ve much longer to last
Baby you shake my walls
And make my breath come so fast
Ravage my body, seduce and take hold of my heart
It’s no use I can’t fight it my resistance is breaking apart

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me.

Baby if you haven’t fallen already
I’m gonna do everything to get you to do so….
And if you tell me you are feelin me too
Then I’m gonna work you deeper inside until you go…

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me.

Let your storm come baby bring the rain
Wash away my hurt my heart is yours to claim
Let your storm come baby bring the rain
Wash away my hurt my heart is yours to claim

Amos Fuller Doesn't Speak by BJ Neblett

Amos Fuller Doesn’t Speak

(A winner 2007 Penn American Writing Program)

by BJ Neblett

© 2006, 2013

Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.
He sometimes sits with us when there is room,
His stark dinner tray occupying his private
quarter of the table.

His khakis are always neat and clean,
Wrinkle free, yet strangers to an iron;
His heavy black boots shiny and worn.
He never wears sweats, or sneakers, or
T shirt,
Just the same long sleeved uniform, winter
or summer.

If the salt and pepper are out of reach he
does without.
Sometimes one of us will place them in front
of him.
Then mashed potatoes become snow covered
mounds,
The single, thin slice of meat an ash laden
shingle.

Bent in posture yet proud in manner,
Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.
He wears his thinning Afro like a skull cap;
His withered brow reads like the rings of
a southern pine.

He bows his head in prayer, and raises it
in drink,
His vacant eyes prisoners to a different
time, a different place.
Fork clenched tightly in a rough arthritic
fist,
The lacking meal is meticulously
consumed:

           Dry green salad;
           Mean portion of rice or potatoes;
           Meat.
           Two glasses of water.
           Always the same.
           Never dessert.

Once there were cucumbers on his tray.
Halfway through the meal Amos Fuller
burped, expressionless.
He wiped his puffy brown lips
and continued to eat.

Someone said he murdered his wife and
her lover;
Their splattered mingled blood stained the
Curtains and carpet of the tired motel room.
That was 40 years ago,
The last time anyone heard Amos Fuller
speak.

Dinner was silent and tense tonight,
Eyes shifting about like butterflies.
I stood to leave, dropping a wrapped candy
mint on his spent tray.
He raised his blank face to mine,
and rapped his scarred knuckles on the
table.
Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.

                                                      

Untitled by BJ Neblett

Leave the door to your mind wide open. But

keep the screen door shut. That way you can

see everything that is going on around you,

let in only that which you want, and keep

everything inside from running out.

                                                Raybrook, NY

                                                October, 2006