It Would Not Come, a poem by Adam White, poet

It would not come.
It would not come,
Though I plucked the light
Of life and pain from my chest to reveal it.
It would not come.

Its glowing prickle
Teased my burning fingertips,
But left no message.

It would not come.
It would not come,
When I called aloud,
Screaming for a stroke of attention.
It would not come.

Its manifold touch
Would lash out but always miss,
Wild in its blessings.

It would not come.
It would not come,
For the promised flesh
Or the kiss, or pound of meat I cut.
It would not come.

'Til at last I begged.
And groping hard, it took me
Heart, fluid and all.

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CS/S1, a Sonnet by Adam White, poet

The woody smell that fills my nostrils lifts my heart,
And here I stand, among the curling leaves of fall;
Her great decaying will can rot the world apart,
And force the ill effects of time upon us all.
Yet, thanks to Autumn's grace my better years are long;
Gone is the always painful Summer's cloying touch,
And all the joys of Spring that birthed my world in song,
And granted the brief innocence we miss so much.
Fruitful season, your earth and skies, they blaze for me,
To hold off callous winter with infernal lies,
That coldest winds might rear up if they just believe,
So long stalling the year's descent, and his demise.
But sickness, for her falsehoods, brings her low;
Her flames are covered at once by the snow.

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Gotcha, a poem by Adam White, poet

The tumble of once sturdy bricks,
Click-clacking as they struggle to win their race
To the ground.
Gotcha.
In a moment of clarity,

A. One. Solo. Tiny. Minor.
Major all the same. An inconsistency which
Opens the can.
Gotcha.
And I'll show your world's a stage.

But I might just throw it back.
Allow the fish to swim, though it poisons
The perfect lake.
Gotcha.
I'm golden and I'm good.

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