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

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

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

In the garden of my mind

With a fist full of hair;
I drink in the silent storm enveloping me—
so subtle is hint intertwined in words,
his self-announcing fragrance,
a blend of sandalwood and cedar, lingers
like decadent seed
sowed in the garden of my mind—
I am undone.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Aaron Westerberg Painting, Pinterest

Poem inspired by Mickey Finn’s “Garden of my Mind.” 🌹

Posted for Quadrille #109 @ dVerse Poets Pub

After the rain

There is a wildness to the rain;
just like there is to the human spirit.
Can you feel it?
Somnolent, the dry earth is awakened, tendrils of feeling
reaching deeper and deeper,
relentless in their tenacity and with little intention of stopping—
in hindsight the moment was significant,
a prognosis of sorts;
a rush of thoughts liberated with a cry of exclamation,
a flurry of stolen kisses— I linger for you
unshakeable in my belief,
like a leaf is when swirling, slowly, steadily and inevitably in the wind.
I have read you carefully,
sipped the heady wine of viridian irises,
it’s uncanny
there seems to be no explanation for this exquisite attraction,
my lips formed to rebel,
to break through the bonds of convention— the rain, in all its glory,
has sunk into my roots; I feel no regret.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

A Skylover Wordlist:  Somnolent, uncanny, rebel, prognosis 💝

Posted for Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

Green Corn Moon ~ Part One: Amidst the ache and turmoil

The moon’s a prognosis of what’s to come;
somnolent
and rising on the sprawling green of my cornfield heart,
why is it that the world insists upon dissecting what cannot be dissected?
Vagrant,
I barely recognize the faces which once seemed familiar
and warm,
it’s uncanny
how perception of the world changes when circumstances go awry—
I prefer not to transgress, to go about and tackle situations as softly
as shoes
of a ballet dancer instead;
adorning and rejuvenating the only stage that matters.
The moon, in omens of tempest and calm doesn’t actually alter its shape;
not even when waning,
it’s knowledge
which comes only after we have spent a considerable amount of time
sustaining ourselves—
I am firelight, my consciousness immune to toxicity, to blackness
that surrounds and torments; I smile knowing it too is a form of rebellion.

 

 

Photo credits: Henrik Aa. Uldalen painting, Pinterest

A Skylover Wordlist: Uncanny, firelight, transgress, awry,
rebel, somnolent, prognosis, vagrant 💝

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United