Poetry by J.R. Casamento
I write poetry inspired by my love of nature and moments of quiet reflection.
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I am working on two volumes of poetry, they will be for sale soon!
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Where the Light Slipped Through
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It was only light—
spilling just so
through leaves and falling water.
But the air grew quiet.
Time seemed to pause.
And something in that stillness
felt older than memory.
The waterfall gleamed
as if it remembered
a secret too sacred for words.
I did not breathe.
I did not move.
There are moments
so holy they do not belong to us.
There are places, I think,
where the veil grows thin,
where light falls differently,
and wonder
becomes a door,
beckoning the soul to enter.
Peony's Surrender
I knelt at the edge of the garden,
just when the peony bowed her head,
heavy with inevitability,
surrendering to the weight of letting go.
I placed my palms on the earth below her,
a prayer whispered in the dirt,
as if my hands could hold the beauty
about to unfold.
With each exhale, a petal dropped.
a delicate dance of life's farewell.
I stayed, witnessing her final moments.
feet shuffled past, whispers,
"What is she doing?"
But I had found solace
in the peony's surrender;
this was not how I had
Intended to spend the day;
while others walked on to
the tidy rows all
beautifully blooming,
I only saw delicate petals,
falling, falling;
the world had something to say,
and I was listening.
Daffodil
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If I could choose my next incarnation,
let me be this fearless—
to burn like small suns
without apology,
to spend all my gold
without counting,
a priestess of the lost sun,
pouring my brightness back into the dark
before the stars call me home.
See how they gather—
ghost-choirs of light,
speaking in a language
older than frost,
unbothered by endings,
still singing
the first songs of bloom.
Love letter to summer, 2
I'm drunk on his wild giving,
staggering beneath such sweet excess;
Strawberries,
still warm from the sun,
taste like his kiss—
honeyed and wild.
Wisteria spills
like a silken confession,
and the peonies—
my god, the peonies—
swoon open
as if love itself demanded it.
Everywhere,
this wild abundance.
Summer has no shame,
no careful measure.
he moves through the world
drunk on his own magic,
spilling light like wine.
he does not count treasures.
he scatters them—
reckless, radiant—
trusting that I will catch
what falls.