I Thought (6-4-13) by Megan Seaman

“I thought you were my Beatles’ song

Long and languid the notes carefully streamed

from your mouth, invisible electric touch

The drums creating heart beat sounds

That vibrated and moved organs into alignment

And the Tune heard without a word from

You came through and changed what was visible – what was possible.

 

I thought you were my midnight moon

With golden glow reflected

From the sun that shown in

Your opposite sky. You beamed

And it seemed that this Earth

Was yours and you were mine

Forever, no need for words.

 

I thought you were my ocean wide

Wild and white caps of waves

Ebb and flow to shores

So far, come close, so that

I may feel your warm salty

Touch and flush of waters

Awaken this sleepy heart

Set apart from dreams in the dark.

 

I thought you were my last farewell

Chest swells with sensational

Push of butterflies to the

Surface, my last hello lost in

Your soul where it was always

Going, not knowing the meaning,

Reasons, or why, but alright

Satisfied and prepared to fall

and ready for it all.” – Megan Marie Seaman

I Am the Poet (July 29, 2013) by Megan Seaman

I am the poet, not the songwriter

Weaving words in perfect pattern

Like soft threads, golden and red

I sew the suit you wear.

 

You are the songwriter, not the poet

Silvery sounds are your guide

Harnessing hums of traveling tunes

You amuse me with your magic moods.

 

I am the poet, not the songwriter

Picking precisely each phrase

Crazed with analytic eye

Speaking how it feels inside.

 

You are the songwriter, not the poet

Like a dance routine or dramatic scene

Disguised calculation of emotional relation

You play the poems that arise.

 

Enticing player with sweet-sounding whine

Tell me your lies and I’ll listen

Very closely to each piece of fiction

Oh, promise you’ll lie.

‘cause what’s the use of truth

in this production put forth

skilled rendition of unvarnished life.

 

But, I am the poet, not the songwriter

With a wish he will listen to my bit of diction

And feel the warm blood that

Melts the ice.

 

And, you are the songwriter, not the poet

Blind to the rhyme, yet heedful to the tone

The music that opens what hides

Behind those sleepy blue eyes.