Jeffrey McCambridge

We dance with the rhythm
Of leaves and grass
Wind in the trees
And lakes of grass.
...

I am the
Half-way point
Between yes and no
Your green light
...

We wear black to remember
A day we rather forget;
We lost one of our own
The unsuspecting target.
...

Who is this that
Holds the pen, giving shape
To words, and color to sound?
I have seen him before,
...

I

He sits upon his thrown
Free of metaphor and myth
...

Now i'm afraid my dear
The end of the party is near
And It is time for the guests
To depart to with the rest
...

No one in the world
Be quite like you
With honeysuckle eyes
...

Some will tell you
That love is blind,
It is a shame so many
Would be so kind.
...

Clouds of apprehension and
oppression blot out the sun.
The world is made a colder place
by her absence as scattered beams
...

The pen diverts my pain,
Softening it like meadows
Bringing seven ounces of sunlight
To the consuming darkness.
...

Words mean little to
The dead language of dreams
Where color takes significance
Over the value of all else.
...

Between the hidden fruits
And secret fires
The untamed mists clear
A paths, lightly tread
...

The silence of night
pulls at the strings
of my heart.
her dark expanse
...

The poet dreams
As he makes his way
Through streets paved
With the screams of children.
...

The night sinks below the horizon
To dance alone with the stars
(I wait for you, my love
with an empty heart)
...

I tread ashes and amber flowers
Lilly hills, and melancholy truths
As the ritual of my legs
Is preformed with fatal accuracy
...

The ink is long since dry
And the pens are all gone
The eyes have stopped looking
It’s been written so long.
...

The wheels have been stopped
And the machinery no longer works
Like it once had, in the days of gold,
Long since gone by.
...

When the sky matches the day
And things seem to be in balance
Because the heavens are a dark gray
Our hearts are weighted down
...

What type of magic
Is there in the names
We give numbers?
...