Valentine (Press)

In love with you the murmured rain I fall.
The diamond droplets crash into your eyes;
I wake but drift away at Saturn's call -
The shrapnel of my soul wears your disguise.
In love with you the steely stars I stay.
They sweetly glint beneath night's velvet lash
as maidens, slumbrous, lovely in the day,
emerge to stud Diane's argentine sash.
In love with you a mermaid's hymn I die.
And Newland's thought for Ellen always knew
the gently whispered waves, the gleaming tide
bring with them lethal subtlety - it's you -
A neck adorned with broken shells is white;
Gold hair wreathèd with weed turns silver night.

No Body (Bless)

This is from an assignment in AP Lit and Comp. Having not written a poem for a long expanse of time, I wanted to make this one count for more than a grade.

I called you yesterday.

Down in Mort's shed,

we found what we needed to find

and did what we needed to do.

Yeah.

Drink up, drink it in.

There wasn't a flip-flap in your jim-jam

and the window was open.

Oh, dunderbill.

But no body.

I peered--

I poked my head outside.

I could smell the wind.

Dry, soft and warm.

Dirt.

But no body.

I saw where you laid.

It still held your shape,

where you laid

where we burned

ending a summer's night eve.

Tinged, Redding was tinged.

No, marked (opaque).

He had it marked down, pegged, even.

Ah, the meaning he had surmised.

Or was it fear?

No, fearful men never throw themselves.

Just the meaning, just the meaning.

He threw himself down

I wrote something on the wall.

Burned it, really.

There was smoke in the air.

I could taste it in the bottom of my throat.

Like heavy ashes

looming in my body

a heavy reminder of things past.

There will be no ashes for this one.

No coffins, either.

Only a marking.

For he's gone.

No signs of movement or anything else.

Only a marking where he lay.

I lost you.

Just disappeared.

No trace.

No solution.

Gone.