Unintended

My love for you is a rose almond. Luscious and creamier than milk, itself.
Sliding into sleep, I search for you. Am I deluded? Do you feel the same?

A luscious rose almond. I search for love that is creamier than milk, itself.
Sleep, itself is deluded. Do you feel I am sliding? The same? And into you?

Do you feel sleep is a search for you, itself? And love a rose almond?
Am I sliding into the same? Luscious and creamier than milk, do you
feel deluded?

Sliding as a rose almond into luscious milk, am I creamier than love, itself?
I am deluded. And I search for you. My love, do you feel the same? Sleep.

My love is sliding into sleep. I search for rose almonds and creamier milk.
I am the same. Love, itself is deluded. Luscious than you? You feel?

Deluded, I am sliding into rose almond sleep. And you feel the same.
You search for love, luscious and creamier than milk, itself. My love.

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Kim invites us to write inspired by  Wendy Cope’s poem “The Uncertainty of the Poet.”

Posted for Weekend Mini-Challenge: The Uncertainty of the Poet @ Real Toads

Posted on Pantry of Poetry and Prose @
Poets United

November Dawn: Of ripeness, and colour and time of propinquity

Morning thickens around us, like verses, full of meaning
as clouds
consumed with thought are kissed a brilliant white,
and I, in deepening admiration surrender
to conversation
rapt in the poesy of your philosophical being,
perhaps I belong to you
to what seems lost but is a gentle remnant unfound–
I listen to your words,
to change in breathing pattern, your chest rising
and falling
until my ribs are filled with your beauty, your curves,
your scent, your skin —
I have instructed the heart to become accustomed
to lesser than rosy-eyed slumber.
Perhaps this is a failing of mine,
these silent reveries that seep from a corner in my mind,
as if ripe berries
weeping complaisance when plucked by hand–
let the breeze amble by
touching us and drifting over soft air
so quiet,
you just might be every kind of worthwhile
I have ever known.

 

Photo credits: Immerse by Karina llergo

Posted on Bits of Inspiration ~ My story @ Real Toads

& Posted on the Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets Pub

& Posted on Monday Writes @ My Blog – Verses

verses

As deep as breath goes

No softeners required, lemon or lime my ecstasy
my medication as I pace along lines
of the mind’s track field–
the muse knows nothing of the promise of tomorrow
nor predicts slow opening of your eyes,
your groans bittersweet
as cinnamon sweet and savory all at the same time–
still making me grin
your eyes dark as olive give away hints of a night
ungovernable,
let them trace my back and dust it red
as moonlight dances and touches upon the shelves–
I have waited too long
for expressions of your chocolate onyx want,
I want the song; I want the song.

 

Photo credits: The works of Miles Johnston, Pinterest

Word List: Onyx, Groan, Lemon, Shelves, Cinnamon.

Posted for “Get Listed with a Mystery Guest” @ Real Toads

Posted on Pantry of Poetry and Prose @ Poets United

To Begin With, the Fading Night and Blossoming Day

“Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.” ― Mahatma Gandhi

Every night when I lie down beneath the stars I die,
my only companion
being a blanket of sky and words ringing loudly
in my ears,
and every morning as I wake
my mind conjures new images for the soul
to dip in—
and even though the eyes may only discern one step
at a time
I am convinced the universe is leading me nearer
to my purpose,
my reason for existence for which I sought to embrace
the world.

The self is often unseeing, unaware of the path it’s supposed to be
of opinion,
I gasp as the cold air caresses my cheek
as though beckoning to observe the landscape,
the underlying possibilities for my poetic heart to indulge in.
The clouds diffuse morning light to a subtle sweetness,
as I ask myself the following questions: Who am I now?
who was I before?
I suppose awakening is when we finally learn to be true to ourselves
disregarding what others have taught us to be,
and while I choose to remain close to origin,
I can’t help but wonder why branches deeply rooted long to stretch
towards the horizon–

I am conscious of half empty tea cup and few rainier cherries
poised on the table,
their thick and creamy yellow flesh eager for a second bite;
eat, love and offer your palms in prayer, there is only so much
the heart can endure,
early thirties led me to understand who and what I truly am–
poetry my vivication, my pulse, my strength
as city remembers a forgotten tale and shadows shift like pearly rays
across a cruel moraine,
ignorance’s silhouette shows no remorse as verses scatter into the open–
I am a flickering flame familiar with its various hues
and shades,
as I ready myself for challenges my pen has yet to face.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United

Remember when we were strangers?

You leave me unfinished
staring deeply into the abyss of time,
I, a rough sketch of desire, attempting to put words together
your scent lingers as rain
conjuring a gentle yet dark pattern upon my skin,
remember when we were strangers–
in tandem stationed in the bucolic hills
the shape of those days
meant nothing if either one of us wasn’t contained in them,
your scent dances around inside my head
as autumn leaves cascade to the ground unhindered–
the night has already beckoned the body to rest,
conscious of raw rush taking over as I drift into sleep.
Your lips erubescent — taste of the finest raisins and cherries
oh, how I wanted you to define me!
You are poetry that seeks to align me with the world
without pretense;
I, a warm and persistent candle wafting in the wind,
remember when we were strangers?

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Sanaa’s Challenge @ Real Toads

And on  Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United