Blades of grass

The grass has a cerulean tinge which I associate
with the seaside, coarse and tough—
while the day
wraps herself in a silky cloak that gleams from afar;
it’s admiration that moves us,
inspires us
and urges us to make a change, offer input, and restore beauty
back out into the world.
Things were different back then; honesty had a way of finding its path,
a form of karma
that portrayed not only golden stones but potholes as well.
Fast forward to the current age,
and dive headfirst into lies— all vibrations in the air,
inconsequential to the medium through which they travel.
Of course, if you fight it,
you stick out, you are a rebel, a conspiracy theorist— a marked person.
The grass on my soles is scarce,
mown so short that the ground can be seen through
and the day is shadowy grey,
almost as though the skin is stretched taut across her cheekbones—
were my thoughts visible,
they would be an explosion, should I choose to speak them out loud
and see the wandering begin in your eyes—
you, the current generation, the future bread and butter of households,
the shapers of society;
your thoughts you guard, hardly ever letting an unconsidered word
escape from your lips,
I fear you lack depth; you lack imagination.
I don’t know what causes you to hide or what forms your apathy
but I need you to hold open the door.
There comes a time when pushing one’s ideas that could save our world
becomes morally the right thing to do;
much like destroying weeds before sowing new grass, only—
things were different back then.




Photo credits: Unsplash

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

Handcrafted in Feeling

Handcrafted in feeling;
I twirl in the lucid flow of air—uninhibited
I am guilty of it as anyone,
the lit fuse of my lips disregards the conventions of the world
just by existing.
Unload the night sky, a moment in a lifetime ago,
stifled sighs
and let it slip from shoulders, who knows what we know
when we ask it questions—
enact a thousand reasons why,
why promises of growing seasons rumble from your irises?
Even when we barely touch?
I am a flower soaked and lost in your current,
mint cream cheese icing to your cupcake;
I need not cite the passage that contains details
because Summer
sweltering hot and
sweet has already cited it— the same way
the moon
tames the sun
as they embrace each other during an eclipse;
to say that I am surprised would be an understatement.




Photo credits: Pinterest

Skylover Wordlist: Enigmatic (words found after
scrambling are) Icing, enact, tame, cite, mint 💝

Posted for Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

Buck Moon ~ Part One: Departing from Pavements

The taste of world’s last dance lingers upon my lips;
an orb of liquid fire,
where the skin of my grief sheds its leaves—
written in dark letters
upon every single page, it refuses to bite dust, to move ahead.
Name these feelings of mine
as I bequeath my mortality to you, a honeyed nectar
in a chalice half full— one that scrys into for answers;
that’s how the story progresses,

poignant and cleansing the heart of its saltiness.
In defense of dystopia, I am a Poet first
then a realist, dusting roses along the way;

thirty-three years and Spring is over,
my intellect demands that I depart from pavements—
a glossy black asphalt that mourns the living
and leads
to the past, morbidly cold to the touch; it does not breathe.
Why must we chase that which has no desire to be pursued?
The moon, a chaotic rhythm
born of soul; it’s all right to let go, it’s all right to let go.




Photo credits: The Mirage by Alexander Yakovlev, Pinterest

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

Darker Sunrise

I have surrendered many a darker sunrise
in my weakness—
your instructions never fail to arouse
the rising stems,
stretching out wherever you are,
whatever your weather.
I look upon you as a paragon of eros,
the way your lips shape my name
and obey
the pull of the commands of servitude—
sometimes there are no words left,
only beams of light
and softer sighs;
is this something you can live without?



Photo credits: Colley Whisson Artwork, Pinterest

Posted for Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

In the heat of things

I guess it wasn’t entirely unexpected;
the brilliant pearls of afterglow that sit as though cushioned
upon unadulterated mauve,
dusk arrives to bring us moonlight,
a time for quiet contemplation as the heart aligns
with mind—
I am sorry, I cannot save the world from what it has become;
waves of unexplained anxiety,
but I can promise you this,
I will adore the sweet hallow of your throat until
you slide into sleep;
hear you, calling me with your mind when you least expect it,
for while there is suffering, every soul out there
is battered,
somewhat like browning leaves – they have so little

to hold on to.
I am almost always in control,
of what goes on around me, of course, but particularly of myself—
but as of tonight,
I am taut, stretched, savage and urgent,
there is a moment when we realize,
when we know, when we understand; when suddenly
it all becomes clear
and everything changes— and I revel in the heat,
in the sacred mound of your sex;
all these thoughts
have your name upon them,

I guess it wasn’t entirely unexpected.



Photo credits: Richard Blunt Artwork, Pinterest

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

& Posted on Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets Pub