Winter Moon ~ Part three: Petals of the Sun

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

Salt-Water Poems ~ Part one: Wanting and Wishing

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

The Black Iris

(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

His Scent

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