I watch as they remain unflinching,
petals of the sun
while the wicked wind whips the snow,
and darkness slowly descends.
How do we restore balance in the world?
How do we dispel negative gravity?
I wake without reason to logical fallacies,
sly in apparition—
speak not of the sky,
drowning choke of smoke and fire
for fear that mercy is evidently misplaced,
I slip on the straps and release a sigh.
Come ink words in the blind,
watch as grey headed canaries break free
from cages—
my love is unselfish but I require you
to breathe,
coffee lips in the throes of death
and change,
perhaps we are reading the shadows wrong;
forever cannot draw a circle.

 

Photo credits: ‘Petals of the Sun,’ by Manabu Oda, Pinterest

Skylover Wordlist: apparition, gravity, canary, circle ❤

Posted for the Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

The whiskey dark water conjures
memories of you,
suffusing the skin with the softest of blushes—
distance stretches adamant and yet
sometimes it feels like we are close enough
to breathe in deeply,
like the sharp, brackish aroma of air present all around,
I take it you already know
we tend to look into things which are better off unseen,
the sweet poison of a lie’s flavour is pungent
it’s the coldest of blues
that makes us question everything we have ever known.

A handful of earth, dew on a wild rose
and gospel
is every bit ecstasy and is every bit undeniable;
I am gloriously indulgent when left
to my own devices,
my body with its curves swirls
and caves in to the boundless depths of the sea.
A Poet lives two lives,
one on the outside and one in the mind,
look into the eyes
and see an abyss, if you look long enough
you could sink into it;
take the time and read the words,
similar to the waves that send chorus of voices.

I blow kisses to the sea and offer a silent prayer,
hear its melancholy sound,
you have a beautiful way of making me harden
and melt at the same time;
perhaps I have turned wanting into an art form,
my ribcage like a conch shell where you can hear
a thousand songs—
I want them to throb; I want them to throb.

 

Photo credits: BIRDS IV ON CANVAS, Anna Sidi Yacoub, Pinterest

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

(i)

It falls down as nectar
making the ground wet with salvation,
I am parched
although it rests on the edge of my lips, beckoning
my vision melting and morphing into all that could be—
the laughter of the sky fills the night,
as nymphs tread a lovely dance among immortals,
I gaze down and watch
as my body flutters and chases them around ash trees.

(ii)

Savor the taste of bitter truth,
two pieces of the root of the sweet iris
without bark,
one litter of grappa and brown sugar.
Observe as the sun kisses the pieces dry,
pouring ever so slowly like liquid gold
as heaviness of the day is lifted.
For ninety days be placed in a litter of grappa
as time stings and sits on the cuts
and lastly drink, all the lone while, breaking
a little more–

(iii)

Love notes for irises blooming beneath
your bedroom window,
the clouds
no longer grey and cheeks flushed
with the knowledge of arriving decades.
Aphrodite, born from white foam produced
by severed genitals of Uranus,
as the moons of youth spilled once more
into dawn
and we felt ourselves interminable again.
Tell me, why does love sting for those who choose it?
In a heartbeat, she laughed and in a moment I knew.

(iv)

Lay me down
in all my vulnerability, and place an iris
between my hips,
for once
we have tasted eros everything else fails—
tomorrow’s raindrops
pale in comparison to the fire in your eyes
as they trace my skin,
forbidden songs jagging placid landscapes;
and now, I cannot tear my gaze away.

 

Photo credits: The Black Iris by Georgia O’Keeffe, Pinterest

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

Posted on the Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets Pub

Cushion-deep, his scent circles me
and my thoughts
elemi, pink pepper and geranium
followed by cedar,
with fingers that trace the overhead sky–
moonless in its apparition.
With each breath, a new promise takes root
my canary heart colliding with the wild sky of darkness
and light–
every sense in return is heightened.
I place my poems birthed from his ribcage
into a jar
and wait as night turns into morn;
the only remnant
being a lipstick mark which offers his yearning not rest.

 

 

Photo credits: Aaron Westerberg, 1974, Pinterest

Skylover Wordlist: Circle, moonless, apparition, root, canary, cage ❤️

Posted for the Writer’s Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

And so, it happens,
midway upon the journey of life
I find myself
meandering through the grey and misty streets–
their chaotic fragrance somewhat soothing,
sets me on fire.

You humbly inquire after my beliefs,
and percussion
bold that breaks through the windows of heart–
as to this I could not precisely say,
so, I drew it out
and held it gingerly; I am surprised by the warmth
in your eyes,
hazel gold in their fervour.

I drink pink grapefruit consolation and make peace
with the idea
that I can never finish a sentence without you nodding your head
in approval;
nobody is at fault here,
the city’s veins are bent on beating amber to red—
these shadows offer the shape of life.

Before I sleep, I whisper your name
satin syllables
that roll right off the tongue, barely stirring the air
yet a hurricane of desire
follows,
I cannot remember a time when I did not hunger
for you
to dance along,
before lower lip gave me away—
January in return sighs
at invisible poems and half a cup of longing at my bedside table.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Word List: Somewhat, warmth, percussion, grapefruit, fervour, bedside, sleep.

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

Posted on Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets Pub

In the realm of you, my dappled sky is moonless,
fringed with fire
and deep-seated in platitude–
the clouds
that promise rain are pensively deep, equipping me
with the clarity I need,
and I wonder
if your crystal clues of truth are identical–
I am core shaken, captivated
and at sixes and sevens, my glitter-stained
tangled roots
disappearing
into a twisted earthen forest pathway,
where a canary whispers your name— soft and easy.

In my mind, the sense of you is something behind
a tinted window,
part apparition, part firelight
you just might be the safest, most dangerous thing
I have ever done–
your eyes filled with oceans crashing,
tracing poetry along corner of lips where words are left
unspoken–
I feel myself drawn to sweet gravitational pull,
with solitude circling my ankles.
No cages.
I cannot imagine … a more exquisite imprisonment.

 

 

Photo credits: Antonio Mora Portraits, Pinterest

In response to Kerry says; “Lets find our poetic voice,” and “Skylover Wordlist.” ❤️

Posted for Play It Again: Grand Finale @ Real Toads

Posted on ‘The Writer’s Pantry’ @ Poets and Storytellers United