Commute – A poem.

The moon is full
and dim.

A haze that pales its color—
a muted pink behind sheer fabric.

It peeks behind the mountains
like her nipple as she dips—
a warm, golden blush
that is just the reflection
of light sent cascading
across the star-filled asphalt
singing beneath my tires.

Her soft touch still lingers
as I drive.

The clouds rise like the ocean—
an impending wall of rain and cold
and hope.

To crash against me,
over and over as we both shiver—
the blistering warmth that chills
as we race through each other.

JKolasch

She Replied: Do Sunflowers Love the Moon – A poem.

At night, she visits, the dark outline
of a lover sneaking through the window.
A star being pulled by the persistent
tug of a hole in the night.
Or like the dark face of the moon
wishing it could turn
and see the sun.

She is a sunflower
opening up to the sun with a soft O.
Lays in the grass where baby
spiders practice catching flies.
Quiet buzzing strings raise
goose bumps in her skin.
Rain pricks against the flat blade
of her tongue and touches her eyelids,
inquiring fingers: Can I come in?

At dawn, she departs—
smell of sunflowers,
gentle almost kiss of petals
on the tip of my nose. I miss her
weight of nakedness next to mine.
She leaves a shallow
crater in the sheets like the moon
pelted by tiny seeds.
In front of dirty glass, she opens
her arms to welcome the sun.

I wish I could be the light side of the moon
and turn around and welcome
her into me.

JKolasch

Will-O’-The-Wisp – A poem.

The lights above
guide the lights below.

Red, green, yellow.

I drive home to her.
A green arrow pushes
me to the left, and I
follow.

Green, yellow, red.

I’ve never seen that weeping
willow dipping to kiss
the road. Yellow leaves
dripping like paint.

Yellow, red, green.

Stop. Wait for the red eye
to blink—go straight, take a left.
A lake keeps the moon,
and I keep making
wrong turns when
the lights above—

Red, green, yellow.

Her driveway is inviting, yet
the cobblestones are all
wrong. A yellow road vacillating
to the green front door
I don’t recognize. But the porch
light is beckoning,
luring me to knock.

Green, yellow, red.

She answers, red hair
instead of brunette. And the ring
on her finger is missing,
not even leaving a ghost.
Her lips are pleasant, red pressed,
yet the hands holding mine
aren’t familiar.

Yellow, red, green.

Green eyes go into mine,
but they should
be brown. So I go—
the lights above
guide the lights below.
Hesitate at the yellow flashing,
winking, blurring. It’s clear,
and the prisoner moon ripples
in front of me, almost begging
me to notice
the green light is really

Red, green, yellow.

JKolasch