Welcome to PDGuertin.com, home of P.D. Guertin poetry and prose on love, presence, and perception.
I write to trace the unseen — the quiet between moments, the shape of feeling before it finds its name.
Here you’ll find poetry and reflections that move through love, memory, and the small details that make the world worth keeping.

Sometimes the wind carries more than the air – sometimes it carries truth.

The Breath Before Sound

Listen to me as I form an alliance with the breeze.
I sing something sweet—
though the wind through my branches
hisses like a rattlesnake.
I am the leaves and limbs
that give you breath,
the breath before sound.
I speak for your attention—
to feel what is heard,
to feel what is felt
when my breath kisses your skin.

My venom teaches,
and there will not always be a second chance.
Though I love and seek your growth,
I need your tears.
My only hope is for tears of joy,
so I may quench my thirst—
but I will just as easily swallow sorrow.

Out in the distance,
a bird will call your name.
Sounds you cannot understand
will mysteriously make sense.
And you will feel the world sing to you.
You will remember to open your eyes
and absorb the sky that blesses you.
Breathe in,
breathe out—
let the world into you.

If a breath can carry meaning, then music carries entire worlds. The wind through branches is one kind of song, but there are others—born in the streets, in the laughter of friends, in footsteps moving in time. We don’t always notice them until we’re listening closely. And when we do, it feels as though the music has been waiting for us all along.

Are We Music Waiting to Be Heard

Music from a nearby concert makes the people walking
look like notes in a melody.
Rhythm is in the air
and footsteps syncopate to the beat of the bass.
People speak to one another
and form their own lyrics to the music we’re all listening to.
It’s as if mini concerts are being created from the mother song—
creatures in the world all peacefully expressing themselves.

Listening makes me wonder
if the music is always around but sleeping,
waiting to be summoned for meaning.
Without us, music silently vibrates,
almost nonexistent in the world.
It needs us to be heard,
and we need it to be heard.

How many words must you speak before someone will listen?
How many years will pass before you are felt?
Are we music—waiting to be heard?

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Step into worlds of poetry, each collection offering its own rhythm, voice, and vision.