Jay Poem 1., Jay Poem 8.

Jay Icarus

He was like Icarus.                             He was my Aurora.

I tried to pin him down,                   Into a butterfly collection.             Make him a wish, as white as the night.                                                          A notion, as blue as the yew.

He only settles in memory,             Of an antique mind;                        Full of lifelong longing.

His vanishiment, to a new light spectrum.                                      Where feelings are not               Pangs of pain,                                  Only continuate bliss.               Where he remembers my name, Not the taken.

Jay Poem 1.

Into the Summer

You whispered,                                                                       “The girl with hands full of rings.” Frozen by time, you slept in my arms,                                                                Under the ripples of radiant blue light.

Now you’re gone Jay,                                                              and you haven’t found her.

For in June, with juvenile pursuits, tranquility was chased away by noon.                                                                         And all awkwardness, recklessness, and giddiness; a collection for a dust web.

The bridged cards have fallen down.                                                         And memory has fled, wasted in the vallies.                                                  We no longer in our haven                                           upstairs, above the antique shop, departure, through the kitchen.

I read a poem today,                                                               And it reminded me of you.                                         “Looking back on time with kindly eyes                                                          He doubtless did his best;                                                    How softly sinks his trembling sun.                                       In human nature’s west!”                                                 (Emily Dickinson)

In a forest, that leads back to your house;                                                           I wonder now, if you are still on one of your trails, coming back to me with a guitar pick in your mouth. How softly you’ll call for me.

Frozen, with sweet anticipation,                                               I want to follow you Jay;                                                        Into that summer forest,                                                       And not rest until everything is —over.

For: J.B.W.                                                                                   By: Naomi Ruth Saharski  W.