An unfinished poem lies in the lines of his palm

“If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.” – Vincent Van Gogh

An unfinished poem lies in the lines of his palm;
earthy and ambiguous
it frequently invokes the muse which like the river is otherwise brimming,
emerald blue rippling,
indomitable with a hope to induce— there is no denying it,
his essence is that of wheat,
of fields laden with eternity in each turn of the breeze.
The sweet, rich brown
a breathless possibility that he might be “he,” is heavenly.
But oh! Blackness encircles like the arms of a cypress tree,
just as dark days are inevitable, they are necessary—
mournful pebbles pry
and I clutch my heart,
he’s the song I sing when everything seems to be falling apart.
Subtly pink, his lips put the sunrise to shame,
without touching
he beckons the soul and moves in as silently as a blown kiss;
and I lie here
envisioning him under a different sky during the early hours of night—
at a point where edges are blurred by infinite longing,

I inveigle sleep and sigh; “for wheat is wheat.”

 

 

Photo credits:  Vincent Van Gogh, Wheat Field with Cypresses

Posted for Poetics: Waiting on Wheat @ dVerse Poets Pub

https://dversepoets.com/2020/08/25/poetics-waiting-on-wheat/

On the corner of 26th Street

Whatever happens, happens once.  It’s ephemeral like passing mist.
Somewhat like the taste of dark chocolate, the night less than nocturnal;
life is brutal that way, the moments that touch us are also those we can
never hold onto for long.

I write them down every chance I get. The exquisite blend of hot and
cold; that is life. When I found him, I learned things I never knew about
myself. How I long to kiss his lips, shapely as a rosebud, sometimes I
still my thoughts in hopes of hearing his heartbeat. We are many miles
apart at the moment. We will remember once when it is over, said and
done – it was a time and there was never enough of it.

By day the café is the colour of bergamot orange. I hold on to knowledge  
that it’s disposition alone that determines affinity.

 

 

Photo credits: Edward Hopper, “Automat,” 1927

Today we are asked to write inspired by a line from
“A Time,” by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke 💝

Posted for Prosery Monday: A Time @ dVerse Poets Pub

Earl Grey and Lamentation

Amaranth red, the morning parts her lips stretching ever
outwards into the rich blue— always in a hurry
there are two kinds of people in the world, us and everybody else
For the love of earl grey, I poke my head out of the covers
wheatish skin disregarding the warmth of the sun
and instead typing bold words with long, slender fingers
on the iPhone screen

Like dark petals, exhaustion falls on the laminated floor
I forgot that people tag along only when it’s related to
their own means of pleasure— the internet has spoiled conversation
no longer across the table, maintaining eye contact
their actions send me deep in thought

Finally the weather matches my mood, rain soaked the ground
holds more than it can possibly endure
black currant jam, love poems and an adamant pen
I feel as though he is thumbing through my mind— viridian desire
that inspires my most wanton poetry, I could drink an ocean of him
and still be thirsty, I am on the edge of something

I cannot describe
always in a hurry, there are two kinds of people in the world
us and everybody else

 

 

Photo credits: Gerard Schlosser Painting, Pinterest

Posted for MTB: Stream of Consciousness Writing @ dVerse Poets Pub

And posted on Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

I am explaining a few things

Red lipped, I wait like spring-tide
as salt grass and anemone blossom in cycles
set up by the moon;
listen closely I am explaining a few things—
holier than holy is touch,
every point of contact feels as though water on fire
it’s simple and yet indescribable;
a rush of energy that speaks volumes in comparison to words.
You ask me what significance there is to Poetry?
I’ll enlighten you, but briefly!
A luminous vessel expanded in the secrecy of dark earth,
an onion,
its depth and meaning cannot be unraveled petal by petal
without a ransom of tears.
I am twilight
choosing to plant a handful of seeds until the sun goes down—
I know not jealousy nor do I care for spite,
my sky opens each day like a peach cut in half;
only momentarily, yet too long.
Does the wind know of patterns formed and left behind?
Imagine her joy when she sees ripples near the lakeside,
there are things that the blood needs to hear—
such is my state, who knows
what I might write under the heady influence of August—
my eyes heavy lidded with sleep do not close over his image
without a sigh;
I am explaining a few things.

 

 

Photo credits: Jan De Vliegher artwork, Pinterest

Poem inspired by the title of Neruda’s poetic masterpiece 💝

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United