Last Night, I Dreamed Of Water

Bone soldered,
I dream of aquatic chestnuts and walking barefoot
on the beach; rippling waves
and low whispers encased in the ocean’s bed
call to me,
but as the hours pass, I am jolted back to reality—
we are living in perilous times,
where mounting casualties paint the landscape.
Raw is how I feel, and though I am sequestered,
I understand that it’s necessary.
The night is somewhat distant
and aloof,

it shies away from the clouds implacable— who then reveals
the face of the city?
I picture people sitting idle, their nocturnal hearts
joined together
with nothing but a single thought— “Stay home. Life is beautiful.”

 

 

 

Photo credits: Atlas Obscura

Magaly invites us to write poetry or prose inspired by
Pandemic Street Art from around the world. 📝

A Skylover Wordlist: Implacable, aloof, aqua, nocturnal, landscape 💝

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

Darker than black

Aloof and recalcitrant;
the sky speaks of alchemy that goes into shaping my landscape—
rolling hills
dressed in the colours of rain give a glimpse of what goes on inside;
this feeling is hard to explain.
I look into the mirror and see your face instead,
almond eyes vibrant with arrows sting;
they have managed to dye my implacable rivers red.
T
here is only the present— its soft consonants
continue
to ring in my ears, tearing apart the back seams;
what then were masks created for?
Do we really know ourselves as much as we let on?

The music of your amorous lips washes up
against barriers
and rises into nocturnal emptiness— I surrender again and again,
this inclination is darker than black: this inclination is darker than black.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

A Skylover Wordlist: Alchemy, implacable, mask, aloof, almond, nocturnal, sting, landscape 💝

Posted for Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

Letter from beyond the grave

Death is somewhat like passing into memory;
an ivory cream rose
carved into the garden of one’s mind
why do you look so forlorn?
We live on as words that seek to pour themselves
into the liquid clay of the mold
leaving behind us two halves;
one that rests below the ground and other that remains
tucked away into the ribcage.
Do not moan, this world we live in is transient;
the cold wind blows as a reminder in one’s face.
The last vestiges of the setting sun
are disappearing
and along with it whatever is left of humanity
I implore you, be kind to each other!
Nothing is as piercing as the pain hidden in one’s soul;
sift through it,
pick out the parts that hurt the most and replace them
with soft whispers
what we do with our time here depends entirely upon us.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Day Thirty ~ Bang, Whimper, Hiss

Skylover Wordlist: Deaths 💝

Posted for Play It Again @ Real Toads

This is by no means the end

The wasteland of almost maybes
calls out to me, while unrelenting mauve crocus bulbs open
knowing
I am a match waiting to be struck; outside
the sun, slowly ebbing, observes as I
walk slowly into the arms of dubiety– what little
resistance left within me crumbles, like
massive stone pillars; only
in this case it’s the vibrational energy of atoms and
molecules, logic be damned
there are times when we just know, before
it reaches a conclusion; just then
the sky shapes your face and I am
spared the moment when the mind becomes a blackened
matchstick– perhaps when we finally arrive
at the end of quarantine period it will all fit together, and I
will burn brightly, an amber-blue flame ignited
by your love.

 

 

Photo credits: Emmanuelle Brisson Photography, Pinterest

Literary device: Enjambment 🌳🌾

Day Twenty-nine ~ This is (almost) the end

Skylover Wordlist: Match 💝

Posted for ‘Play It Again’ @ Real Toads

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

With every passing hour of Spring, my love

There are numberless questions to be asked,
some of which
no matter how hard I try,
remain within the barriers of less than rosy lips—
after hours are no longer bruising;
I have surrendered to the flow of the universe.
The sky, a witness to ever-increasing ardor that blooms in
my breast,

who designed this path we are treading upon?
Barely a whisper,
my name upon your tongue reveals far more shades
than one,
and I think back to the times when I have made you laugh—
my skin yet to feel your touch,
revels in the warmth of your eyes instead.
Without you, breath is nothing more than a wisp of smoke
that hurts;
routine in the form of your embrace is what my heart yearns for.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

“With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

Day Twenty-eight ~ Harper Lee

Skylover Wordlist: Numberless 💝

Posted for Play It Again @ Real Toads