The House

My head is an attic,

And gray matter the trunks.

Above are beams of decades,

Below, doors letting them out.

The world is a breath

And each room is a lung.

Bones grow like a staircase,

Blood paints chosen words.

The windows are a camera,

The kitchen is a heart.

Lift gently from the foundation

When the walls fall apart.

TVS Poems: “8 Talking Poems” and Photo Art by Tim Van Schmidt

Spirit Like a Comfortable Chair

No longer the calm from the cushion.

No longer the decisive word.

No longer the sparkling eye

That shone on childish play.

No longer moments live again

While the old arteries harden,

Reaching the youth of curious ears

As outside trees are swaying.

Walking, a ghost in a nightgown;

Her wit and chuckle remain.

I dream her voice cradles the night

To whisper that it is alright…

…it is alright…it is alright.

OoB: Opposite of Blink presents TVS and two fingers “Found”

Found

In my pocket is the hand

That gripped the universe and shook.

In my mouth is the word

That love finally heard.

In my shoes the whole earth quaked,

The sea boiled, the sky flashed.

In my eye time stands by

And memory teaches all.

Found in the ruined moments spent

Is the mystery of another day:

In my heart the deepest questions

Lift the veil away.