that blossoms come as tame as clouds, with their champagne blush inculcate thoughts otherwise deep in slumber; I look for you at the edge of a dream, echoes of skin on a sultry June evening that has forgotten its path while pursuing yours— I am going to need you to memorize every detail there is to my French vanilla lavender perfume. That Lowell probably had to hold himself back while naming their names, bread, this bread has a crunch to the crust that brings back so much from the past—go laugh in the places you have cried before, change the narrative. Despite their power, fragility laces the horns, upon the sea-washed sand there lie questions whose answers never arrived, I wonder what Ares truly thought of distasteful aspects of brutal warfare; we know not if the rest of the world sees us the way we do ourselves, preferably untainted. Believe me, when I tell you the empty sky is filled with promises unseen, that sound of cicadas singing in the elm trees mean nothing and everything at the same time to lovers meeting after long— long after the sun has risen with crimson delight, isn’t it poetry, isn’t it truth, isn’t it possible that it might be so? I have died a thousand times lighting the clouds over and over again with my pen.
Brittle and unloved this season, with leaves transitioning in colour before dropping to the ground, why is it that we fail to read all that there is in shadows deep? Your eyes in their lament speak, only the wind ushers away their cries as though wreaths insignificant; could the impossible ensue so that I could kiss until you no longer feel this emptiness, this ache that hints at lengthening nights and shortening days. I have known what it’s like to be a falling leaf, anchoring sorrow so as to let sunlight cascade to the floor unhindered—it looks as if the world could use a reminder, it looks as if the world could use a reminder. I was just telling Tupelo black the other day about flat bread
and semolina, how sweetness camouflages the uneasiness that bursts from within, what are we heading toward? Every hour of the light and dark is nothing short of a miracle, softer than we think, at least we will always have the certainty of holding hands. Society is as society does, this much I can safely vouch for— damaged goods shoved against the yellow curb,
as if to draw a line between those who are less than privileged, imagine
a world where this is the basis of law enforcement,
“fewer people can laugh off the fact that they are different.” Autumn arrives as gospel; outside the window raindrops dance with thunder as chorus, and my pen betrays the hot pink smear of doubt, we only have one option: freedom to don unspoken thoughts, to strive towards inculcating an idea, a habit, an attitude that welcomes change; because living otherwise is exhausting.
Lost in the vermilion labyrinth of his lips, some days I exist only as reflections, their hue and shape daring me not to dodge the incoming storm but rather to embrace it, how many people can vouch for taking a risk? For inhaling chaos, when logic and reason fail us, it’s always better to go with instinct; and in turn exhaling calm— I am what I have always been, my ways unconventional, I am an orchid among dandelions. Bravely into the dark like a poem, like a prayer reach, extend your underlying doubts and feel as the wind, the moon usher in strength, lift as branches of tree, I am addicted to the night and dreams of him that consume it, tell me, are my intentions too bold for you— you have something that inspires living out of nothing; I am left with mauve whispers, with everything. Go ahead and risk, I am a Poet and you are the man that infiltrates my thoughts, plot twist: only I have the power to tempt him in every imaginable way and keep myself from losing grit.
Cream coloured- its skin and seeds are inedible, cut in half and scoop out the flesh, experience the taste on your lips as it slides down the throat— be consoled, having a custard apple is like learning how to navigate through life, its various twists and turns, I think back on to his voice, the way it sounds across satin sheets in dark hours of the night. Succulent and sweet, its flavour brings to mind the laughter of children on the merry-go-round; drops of rain after a long drought, adrenaline rush that follows after the first kiss,
one taste is simply never enough, it’s no wonder this heart shaped fruit doesn’t ask for much. Leave them too long
and they can become fermented, approach early and you will find
they are hard as the darkness of your thoughts, remember to wait until they are ripe. I still find pieces of him in every syllable, cropping in late winter and spring
onto my blushing page—too far, too full, too fast, the way my being falls for his, could it be that we are naturally heavy bearers, are means of propagation like the tree itself? And now the clouds scatter sensuously, making my pen ache to map
his face in slow and deliberate detail; darkly passionate,
my custard apple memory.
Photo credits: Agostinho José da Mota – Frutas do Conde – fair use.
Kim hosts at dVerse and introduces the style of Imtiaz Dharker. It’s going to be a fruitful prompt 😉 Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: ‘How to cut a Pomegranate’ @dVerse Poets Pub
Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss; crushed petals, missed elevators, orange marmalade on a morning less than certain, the mere idea infused with verisimilitude offers comfort to a certain degree, but here’s the thing, it’s very grounding. I am not sure that I am actually here, though incessant humming of city outside the window states otherwise; abalone sky heart in a world where darkness reigns, where writing down the truth as opposed to lies is condemned— eventually we feel ourselves to be forgotten. People are just a little bit more cold, a little bit more cautious these days, unable to choose between lavender and oblivion, can you blame them? Gone are the days when sod covered knees were met with appreciation, it’s all about neo-pronouns now; I long for the time when nobody stared at me for being that odd person taking a picture of a torn-up piece of paper with a poem on it. Just so you know, I have seen the land and heard its tongue enough to realize that nothing transient ever matters; only touch and fruits of one’s labor and the way the wind feels running through hair. A Poet’s soul is soft and sensual, loud and tempestuous just like the arrival of a summer storm, we are forever sifting through the alchemy of sorrows and peace of one moment; it’s unnerving when you think about it, but I am owning it.