I search for the treasure of gold
Within my own soul.
The universe sends me clues,
Maps to tap into
Measures of all of my value,
Proof the roof above
Is not soundproof from love
And the walls I built
Are not too tall
If I would just give it my all.
I don’t need to keep
Feeling so small,
Afraid if I leap
I will fall.
Wherever there is joy
Just in doing,
All that work
Won’t be a loss.
I may touch many hearts
Free of cost and with
A profit that can’t be bought.
Without a dime,
All the time
Spent changing lives
Will still bring my soul
Most alive.
About the Creator
J.M. Powell
You can make anything by writing. -C.S. Lewis
My passion is to spread what it means to love.
My published books of poetry: Quantum Leap Overmorrow
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
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