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Stephen Thomas


Poetry walks;
Bright colors complimenting
The cool shades that fall into place
Above long lashes
Gracefully curved toward the sun.
Poetry stops to answer
An echoing name
Slightly turning
To give off the faint sign of a smile;
A burden that usually falls upon eyes
Instead of the misleading
Arc of pink lips.
Poetry holds close;
Tightly latched to whatever is open;
A hand, an arm…
Perhaps an idea unseen,
Or some hope
Concealed behind the folds of reality.
Poetry looks;
Catching my glimpse

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