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

When all else fails

There are days when daylight proceeds as if not prepared to come,
and I wonder
why the world’s not yet been upgraded to a higher definition;
a penny for your thoughts,
we are fragile beings in an unbreakable sort of way.
I look to the sky,
seek the companionship of your words when all else fails–
your perspective helps gain new insight,
urging me
rise above the clamour of the world.

It’s delicate, delightful and deep,
the way the sun blooms on the horizon, unbiased–
is it incumbent for us to act accordingly?
Isn’t it enough that the universe is woven into the fabric of soul?
We write of longing in shades darker than usual,
only a few will understand; if one has no right to exist
neither does the other– I cannot help looking;
I cannot help looking
when all else fails.



Photo credits: Pinterest

This week, Magaly would like us to write poetry or prose
where we are
to fill in the blanks in the phrase, “When all
else fails, I.” Come join us! 📝

Anmol invites us to write along the lines of pride, protest,
gender fluidity et al. I chose to write a tribute poem in his
honor! 💝

Posted for “Anmol’s last prompt,” Poetics @ Dverse Poets Pub

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

His Scent

Now that I have breathed in you,
my senses
no longer respond to any other sound or scent;
blatant berries complain,
blushing furiously outside—I am not sure
what it is about you that beguiles

only that
there is distinct drumming inside my temples.



Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Quadrille Night #106 @ dVerse Poets Pub

and on Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United