Poetry, apparently

What do you write when the words will not come?
When the thoughts are too many and the hands too few,
  When all the thoughts are pictures,
  Or formless,
What do you write? 

What do you write when your soul is empty?
When you can see your feelings away on the horizon
  Close enough to see,
  Too far away to feel,
What do you write? 

What do you write when the needs of your body supersede your will to create?
When hunger or thirst or exhaustion overwhelm,
  When merely to breathe is pain,
  Or to sit,
What do you write? 

Poetry. 
Apparently. 

Magic and starlight (first ending)

He is made of magic and starlight
with sand in his hair
the sea on his lips
and I am lost.

I was chipped, cracked
a discarded thing.
He ran his fingertips over the breaks
     slipped inside
     his mouth against mine
     hips pressed hard
He filled me, healed.
I am whole, sated,
lost.

I ache for him body and soul
The wind answers when I call his name
My hands find only air
My mind clings to memories
     the taste of his skin
     the feel of him pressed against
          deep inside
I am lost.

He is made of magic and starlight
Deep and bright and true and real
and gone
and I am lost.
 

Magic and starlight (alternate ending)

He is made of magic and starlight
with sand in his hair
the sea on his lips.
And I am lost


I was chipped, cracked
a discarded thing.
He ran his fingertips over the breaks
     slipped inside
     his mouth against mine
     hips pressed hard
He filled me - healed.
I am whole. Sated.
Lost.

Body and soul I ache for him
when he speaks my name.
     I whisper, I love you,
     in the dark, I reach out
          he finds me there.
My mind is filled with him
     the taste of his skin
     his strength pressed against me
          and deep inside.

He is made of magic and starlight
deep and bright and true and real
and I am lost.
I am saved.

Pianoforte

Let me lay my burden upon you
Sturdy soul, 
Built for wear.
Carry this heartache- if for a moment;
Ease my pain,
I beg.

Let me touch you gently…
Or hard
Or soft or fast or slow
Or however I must touch you to find release.
Ask nothing of me.

You’ve been used by others for just this thing:
Don’t deny me!
I will slam my heartache out of you,
Pull it whimpering from your strings!
Every heartache.
Every wound.

Let me lay my burden down
Sturdy soul,
Without a care.

The Favorite's Lament

Beneath the dust and dancing sunlight
Half fallen
        Caught by a loose bracket
The photo of a girl and boy

She, leaned against his shoulder
    Eyes shut, blissful
        Face tipped up 
He, arms pulling her close
    Lips pressed to her brow
        An untitled moment
Caught for eternity

How they loved completely, for a time
    For a season, bliss
        Then a call from home
And the boy answered.

Dust drifts against a tear soaked cheek
Sinking into the damp
Mixing with despair
The grief known only to the favorite thing
    Set down.

On why I read 1000 books but never sweep the floor

My upstairs floor needs to be swept, but I have cats to pet
     tea to sip.
My kitchen counters could use wiped down,
     but my daughter is here
       talking of the TARDIS.
My dishes are steadily piling in the sink,
     but I've texted a friend
          we're meeting for lunch.
My kitchen floor is a sticky maze of cat drool and kibble bits,
     but my new running shoes came in
          they need broken in.
My downstairs floor needs vacuumed and steamed,
     but I've started a new book
          the characters are engaging.
My laundry room is filled with laundry.
My bathrooms present a potential health hazard.
My bed hasn't been made since the last time I washed sheets
     - can't recall when that last happened.
I've read women feel guilt about their houses
     about dirt and grime and clutter
          dust and bits of lint.
My house is a disheveled mess, but the people who live here
     are too busy 
          enjoying life and love and passion
               to care about sweeping the floor.

Sirius Black, fearful symmetry (a poem of one of my cats)

Sirius Black was a
Serious cat was a
Seriously black and grizzled old Tom

Sad Sirius
So cruelly rejected
Slunk down behind a dumpster
Snow drifting onto his
Scruffy, coarse fur

Sirius black, that
Serious cat, that
Seriously wounded and abused black cat

Shaggy Sirius
Slunk through alleys
Sliding through
Streets filled with half-melted snow
Searching for warmth

Sirius Black, my
Serious cat, my
Seriously wonderful grizzled old Tom

Saved from a shelter
Sheltered in my home
Satisfied Sirius
Sitting by the fireplace
Sated by the bowl of warm milk for dinner