Nights

The dead get their voices back,
picking up where they left off
when they had daylight. Nothing has happened
in the lives they no longer inhabit
and when they speak your name — call, or whisper,
it’s all the same — the shell of sleep cracks
and you wake, staring into sound.



Ahead

So much depends
on inked plans
written across days
and names of friends
packed into weeks
and places marked
as promises.

Break them
and there’s the future
splintered at your feet.



Solitary

the only way by water
the only landing a crack in the cliffs
the only path steep and broken
the only voices those of birds

circling, calling, crooning, crying

the only level ground a wind-rocked plateau
the only place in the world under the sky

D.A.Prince


If you have any thoughts about these poems, D.A. Prince  would be pleased to hear them