pour me one more time
green like old eyes used to be
memories aren’t real
this form found me out
rooted deep within the weeds
thinking not of then
dusk warms folded hands
voice unravels into silk
dragons drink each thought
not sure what i forgot
drift on in a sea of green
whispers in a cup
come to me again
ink storm winks pages alive
pour me one more time
*62/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. All photos are mine.
I really like this poem.
Thank you ❤️❤️❤️
Very nice.
Wonderful poem, Bridgette! 😊🌻
So glad you like it! Thank you.
Lovely!! 🥰
Thank you!
You’re welcome!
Wonderful Bridgette !
Thank you so much!
Five small cups of verse,
each steeped in memory’s green —
I drank every one.
Lovely haiku answer! Thank you.
Five haikus, each one a sip green like old eyes, rooted in weeds, silk unraveling, drift on a sea of green. By the time I reached ‘pour me one more time,’ I understood. This isn’t about memory or forgetting. It’s about the ritual of returning, again and again, to the same cup. Beautiful, Bridgette. 💙
Much love,
Khadija 💕🤗
I’m so glad you enjoyed these and understood what I was trying to say. Thank you so much for the kind words and the visit.
this one is scary good. after reading Khadija’s comment I definitely had to read it again. try it my way: “[You], pour me one more time” as in “give me one more time with you, one more of those exquisite times we’ve had in the past.”
Thank you! I had that meaning in mind as well. So many of these poem are about Neil, about grief, and I think you read a bit of that in there too.