The wind in its monochrome musings is no longer indifferent,
to the effect that cherry nearly neon pink
that appear in clusters are offered reinforcements
in exchange for answers—
exactly how does one grasp something as fleeting as whispers?
If I could hear the words that take form in the wild storm
of your being,
believe me I’d reciprocate by using red language;
vernacular, if I am to be direct—I place my faith entirely upon detail
as I choose to side with weighty rather than whim,
this vinaigrette dressing of desire would disband all doubt,
together with crumbled blue cheese,
chives, lettuce, spinach, halved strawberries
and candied pecans,
its subtlety alone would ignite emotion otherwise lost in translation,
consuming the heart, the mind, the body and soul
with forbidden knowledge—
I imagine a blush as perfect as early black kissing your skin.
The wind holding its breath is the sole witness,
in anticipation even though she knows it begins and ends
do we ever truly comprehend?
Photo credits: Pinterest
Grace hosts at dVerse and invites us to utilize personification,
imagery or both. Come join us! 💝
This poem is inspired by the title of Heid E. Erdrich’s poetic
masterpiece ‘Red Language.’
Posted for MTB: Personification and Imagery @ dVerse Poets Pub
A puff of powder, a dab of lipstick
of ozone-friendly aerosol to keep my hair subdued,
there is little that hasn’t been said
about what goes on
inside a Poet’s head; one suspects a double death,
even the sourwood blushes.
Photo credits: Loui Jover, “Cocktail Drawing,” Pinterest
De is our hostess today at dVerse and the word is “Dab.”
Come join us! 💝
Posted for Quadrille #119 @ dVerse Poets Pub
Of late, I have been thinking of connections
in a white bowl of fresh fruit;
we talk about political poetry as if it’s a kind of effusion
about something going on—
can we hope to see past the glitter, the charm
and gravel in voice?
I am percussion,
city heat blushing with the surge of ongoing atrocities
beneath the rug of the fourth estate;
do they really think they can separate ache (that strips
carnations of colour) from writing?
Despite its fragility, the city comes out as artwork
in medium of ice; like darker veins, the cold winter is our friend
for it freezes the larvae of pests and allows anarchy
to die disheveled, diffused
and soft—in my book, that’s better than bedside coffee
Photo credits: Pinterest
Word List: ache, gravel, percussion, city, carnation, bedside, heat, bread, poems 💝
Posted for Open Link Night #281 @ dVerse Poets Pub
Leave me whole
as vibrant, as full of potential as English plums
placed under the darkening sky,
where pain is audible—
I have witnessed the ushering cries of newborns
of estranged lovers a thousand times,
each more harrowing than the last;
why do we hide behind the skin of clouds
subconscious is but quiet fragments that move
with the whisper of rain?
The answers discovered at long last liberate me,
so that I run out of excuses
from my own limbs and bones—
do we ever truly escape all that lies in waiting for us?
The wind continues to blow blurry and soft.
Photo credits: Elena Klimenko art, Pinterest
Sarah hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a poem
in response to something we have read over the last year. 💝
I chose Rainer Maria Rilke and his poem ‘At The Brink Of Night.‘ Come join us! 🙂
Posted for Poetics: “A conversation,” @ dVerse Poets Pub
Easy as harvesting red berries,
simple one skillet chicken alfredo pasta—
do not clean the pan,
the brown bits at the bottom add flavor to the sauce
just as snippets of life flash before the eyes,
seconds before blackness claims us
and we are led into a purgatory of sorts;
do I intimidate?
Does my skin sublime remind you of yesteryear’s lust
and unresolved feelings?
Poetic religion is not for everyone,
it crucifies nights and befuddles the day,
torments and leaves the senses shredded—
like blue cheese and strawberry salad
until one is left with no choice but to abandon all means
of rational thought and succumb;
does it appeal to you?
I gaze toward the ashen clouds contemplating life
that’s been left behind,
an orchestra of lovers and foes plays on the nightstand,
yet with one eye half-open
I look on as if waiting for events to alter themselves;
nobody can be fine all the time.
There is a kiss amidst these words, it’s for you
dear reader mine,
like a recurring dream
I keep coming back to life with the fume of a Poet’s sigh.
Photo credits: Truls Espedal, 1973 painting – Pinterest
Join me as I invite others to write Gothic poetry tonight
on dVerse, the last round of Poetics in 2020 💝
Posted for Poetics: Exploring Gothic as a Literary Genre @ dVerse Poets Pub
An exquisite log fire crackled in the inglenook;
marmalade orange flame
and epoch of memories lit the otherwise dark
and dreary living room—
I am intrigued,
for a poem begs to be read on his beckoning lips:
of woods, quiet wars and feral seas.
Photo credits: Fabian Perez, 1967 | Embrace series, Pinterest
Linda is our hostess today at dVerse and the word is “Inglenook.” Come join us! 💝
Posted for Quadrille #118 @ dVerse Poets Pub