Caitlin Callahan's Poetry
A Warning
Silken hair
On whispering skin
Tell me your pretty lies
And I’ll hold them close
Golden soul
Wretched heart
Pay me in diamonds
And your secrets are safe with me
By the Porchlight
As I stand
upon my stoop,
the porch light washing out all the colors,
I look up
at the speckled night sky
and see lights dash by,
their tails bright and quick.
As I stand
upon my stoop
under the pink blossom tree,
the indigo sky swirls
like Van Gogh back from the dead,
and the wind whispers through the rosemary
as I shiver.
As I stand
upon my stoop,
my heart leaps when I see it;
that gentle horizon,
and how easy it would be
to hop the fence
and run away.
Midnight Musings
There is a gentleness
to 12 a.m.
A stillness I admire;
the house settles
and the floorboards creak
as I pad softly into the kitchen.
The clouds are a ruddy gray
and they reflect the lights below them
like water.
There is a gentleness
to midnight wanderings,
and how the glaring lucidity
of daylight
melds into a dreamworld.
In the soft, pale light of the moon
the silhouette of the old oak tree
in front of my back window
looks like a painting.
Romantic and faded,
genuine and somber.
There is a gentleness
to 12 a.m.
Silken hair
On whispering skin
Tell me your pretty lies
And I’ll hold them close
Golden soul
Wretched heart
Pay me in diamonds
And your secrets are safe with me
By the Porchlight
As I stand
upon my stoop,
the porch light washing out all the colors,
I look up
at the speckled night sky
and see lights dash by,
their tails bright and quick.
As I stand
upon my stoop
under the pink blossom tree,
the indigo sky swirls
like Van Gogh back from the dead,
and the wind whispers through the rosemary
as I shiver.
As I stand
upon my stoop,
my heart leaps when I see it;
that gentle horizon,
and how easy it would be
to hop the fence
and run away.
Midnight Musings
There is a gentleness
to 12 a.m.
A stillness I admire;
the house settles
and the floorboards creak
as I pad softly into the kitchen.
The clouds are a ruddy gray
and they reflect the lights below them
like water.
There is a gentleness
to midnight wanderings,
and how the glaring lucidity
of daylight
melds into a dreamworld.
In the soft, pale light of the moon
the silhouette of the old oak tree
in front of my back window
looks like a painting.
Romantic and faded,
genuine and somber.
There is a gentleness
to 12 a.m.