The Pasture

Today, your childhood rests gently

Beneath a blanket of freshly fallen snow,

But do not despair, for the garden you used

To grow, is waiting for you, my dear.

The lilacs and brambles long to feel

Your gentle grace pass through their branches—

And someday they hope to reminisce

Again with the child who they’ve come to miss.

The pink and purple pastures, are waiting

Beneath a winter glaze—the flowers know

You will return to pluck the prettiest petals,

The gift they have been born to give.

And in this meadow, when the frost has lifted,

And you meander once again, with a grin

Widened in glee across your face, the

Bluebirds will flutter down on weightless wings,

And melodically sing of how they're glad you came.

Below the weight of winter, the grass is green—

The same path, the one you played upon as a kid,

Is sitting idly, waiting for the first sign of spring.

Behind the clouds the sky emulates a cerulean hue,

And pauses patiently, until you return once more

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Perturbation

I long to borrow the intellect of the enigma—to be—

The man with twice the thought processing power as me.

For perhaps, with a more peculiar identity

I could stop the brain-itching, perfect-pleasantry

Wishful-thinking, heart-having, sentiment-saving,

Rose-bearing, gold-gleaming, midnight-braving,

Love-beaten laudation that laughs and lingers—

The molasses-like longing lodged upon my fingers.   

I would like to delicately admit, sketch on scripture,

That sometimes I feel like a paintless picture,

A mister without a missus, a typewriter without ink

A chef without a kitchen—that kitchen without a sink…

Like a duke without a duchess—breeches without boots

A lion without his pride, or a panda without his shoots.

The feeling doesn’t seem to be resolved with rest,

The perturbation within my head both brings the best

Of spirits and the most amorous of pangs—a sleep-waking

head-twirling, verse-inspiring, lustful-aching. 

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Precautious Script

I awoke with heavy breath, perplexed

By the sweven revealed to me—

And sauntered into my utterly vexed

Mind—my visage reflected the rare

Turmoil I horded, only half aware.

The empty bed was beneath my gaze,

But I blinked back the beckoning

As I arose, shaking apart the haze—

The fearful, fervent desire, to dive

Into the drawers of my quixotic hive.

I stood silently, before the jesting,

The rhythmic pacing as I pondered…

The methodology of manifesting

A smile—the precautious scripts,

Needed to place it upon her lips.

I was caressed beneath the sheets

By the benign burden I carried,

And baleful knowing of the feat,

The secret sewing I had veiled—

Hope, to the smile she had jailed.
      DannYetman
www.DanielYetman.com

Parting

It never gets easier to say goodbye,

If anything with each parting my

Heart grows more fond—and

The severance claws at my thoughts

With a strength I dare not describe.

Each time it seems our paths divide again

I am left wanting to call out—

To shout out, to do anything

To keep you from disappearing—

Let it be for just one day,

Or even a second, in either case,

I would miss you just the same.

I’ve grown so weary of lying awake,

Listening to the sound of my own

Ever thumping heartbeat—

It seems sleep never comes,

And I think… That’s alright—

Because while I remain conscious

I’m bombarded with a thousand images,

Of your beautiful, beautiful smile.

Every time we part, I wonder,

How it is possible for me to take

My next breath, knowing that

You will not be near.

To this day, I still don't know,

And I'm sure I never will.

The Path

The first time I held her hand was happenstance,

Near where the dandelions grew along the track—

Golden florets of forgotten pastures, in romance,

Amidst the city of voiceless wanderers that swayed,

Silently in the salient evening made.

I outstretched my arm, caught in the contrast

That came from the rocks beneath our feet,

For I must mention now, it was the overcast

And rain that slickened the path we wished to trot—

Even so, in my eyes, the sun was not forgot.

Our fingers neither intertwined nor convoluted

But found satiety when gripped in a gentle gesture

Which made it apparent, my heart was muted.

For a moment my words would not align

Assimilated with emotion I dare not define.

Never has my hand felt more out of place,

A fumbling grasp beneath her finesse—

An earthly entanglement against her grace.

The first time I held her hand left me fervent,

And completely aghast, without intent. 

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Pure Evil

She acts innocent, like fragility is her curse—

She smiles when you’re not around

Bruising your ego like the flesh of fruit.

She teaches you how to hate,

Teaches you to hate yourself.

Her gaze is soft and her smile kind,

To hide the pain she buries deep.

She paints her plastic face,

To match her plastic heart.

Feeding off peripheral glances

And hollow compliments.

Her lips, taste of ashes

As you pull yourself away from her.

She has killed before,

She will kill again.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Pretending

It lingers, the sound of footsteps behind;

You check over your shoulder when you’re all alone—

It may be hope or the result of trembling nights,

Fear you never knew you were capable of having.

Long walks, wandering eyes—

Trying to get the words just right.

Forced smiles, hollow cheeks—

Talking to yourself but managing to stay afloat.

Words spoke but never meant;

Words sincere but never heard,

Torn to pieces and built back again.

Eyes empty, ready to fall apart;

Voice breaking, silent tears—

The only hint of what's inside.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Passion

Passion guides and passion becomes lost—

It is both what drives us and tears us apart.

Passion is the cause of our lust and love,

And for a moment, the breaking of our hearts.

Passion sculpts our dreams, keeps us awake—

It reminds us of all the sacrifices we have made.

Passion shows us that we are not good enough,

And keeps us moving towards who we want to be.

Passion is the cause of all the pain we have felt,

As well as all the joy to be brought.

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Perform

Your eyes fill me with conquests of metaphor;
but in the mirrors gaze, I see my eyes faded grey.
We are different—too different you and I.
We can never meet; never will our worlds collide.
Your world is yellow, while mine is faded grey.
We are different—too different you and I.
You are only a dreamer; I live my life gifted.
When you smile; I watch with my eyes, faded grey.
We are different—too different you and I.

        DannYetman

http://www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/