Noah Eastman

To live

Is to constantly leave something we thought

Was truly ours.

White rose, fragrant and full of promise.

Now, nothing more than a damp diagram

Soaked in heartache.

The petals blowing over the scorched earth

Do not ask to leave

Only what remains is

And the shadows weep memories

Of a dripping rose

I thought would always be.

Nothing is changing the raw

Bud chiseled round

And round

In the timeless

Rain

Until sharp blades clip the thorny

Hand holding what once was

And now is

Pain.

--

--

See, really see, the subtleties in the way the swan soars

over the puddles,

the mountains, and

the flickering ferns.

Begin your journey like a

gentle breeze

rising free

in the heat of a Great Oven.

Be the treasured feather your lover

dips into her dark pool of ink.

Be the blood blushing in a soft body slowing

down.

Be the buzz of a bee sliding

between the silky, smooth thighs of a poppy.

Be the surprising iris on a canvas

dripping with desire.

Be the rich pigment

on a palette,

confined by nothing

but the will to imagine.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

just open your wings to belonging, like the swan gliding,

to something as broad and free as the great, blue sky.

--

--

Frayed lace,
Stained lips,
Stone, gray shoes.
Rubber worn,
Walls wrinkled,
White, washed too.

Mildew splayed,
Apron splattered,
Threads spewed,
Eyelets shattered,
Sole crinkled,
Raw, tattered,
Fabric chewed.

Eyelets chipped,
Edges soiled,
Heel crimped,
Tongue toiled,
Mud freckled,
Logo boiled,
Bottom unglued.

Puke peppered,
Toe blasted,
Apron checkered,
Juice casted,
Decay layered,
Sun fastened,
Seams undoed.

Sublingual glow,
Violet ripples.
Veiled within,
Trash, simple.
Two words flashed,
Etched by dimples:
Love, Cocoon.

--

--

Tenderness hides behind Fear’s glare as he targets a game of hopscotch.

The scarred scowl scoffs,

Colorful lines of chalk cannot ward off the doom of black cement.

Liveliness triggers anger, a flash grenade reminiscent of sudden endings.

Carefree cul-de-sacs stir bleak scenes in the veteran’s smoky eye:

Whimpering widows, funerals, dismemberment.

He coughs on cold chew: innocence is blind to reality.

Long summer days cut to darkness.

Smearing the chalk with his knee-high boots, a scorched hope croaks:

Everything you care about will be taken from you, every single thing.

Stop wasting your time, no amount of joy can shield you from loss.

The children don’t hear the hoarse warning over the tapping of their shoes.

They simply move their game to the other side of the heavyweight blocking

the last rays of warm, summer light.

--

--

Noah Eastman

Noah Eastman

word widdler, love maker, soul mender, staff spinner, insecure man — child in need of validation. fueled by enthusiasm and joy, born of fertile uncertainty