It’s happened. Easy as harvesting red berries, simple one skillet chicken alfredo pasta— do not clean the pan, the brown bits at the bottom add flavor to the sauce just as snippets of life flash before the eyes, seconds before blackness claims us and we are led into a purgatory of sorts; do I intimidate? Does my skin sublime remind you of yesteryear’s lust and unresolved feelings?
Poetic religion is not for everyone, it crucifies nights and befuddles the day, distracts, torments and leaves the senses shredded— like blue cheese and strawberry salad beguiles until one is left with no choice but to abandon all means of rational thought and succumb; does it appeal to you?
I gaze toward the ashen clouds contemplating life that’s been left behind, an orchestra of lovers and foes plays on the nightstand, yet with one eye half-open I look on as if waiting for events to alter themselves; nobody can be fine all the time. There is a kiss amidst these words, it’s for you dear reader mine, like a recurring dream I keep coming back to life with the fume of a Poet’s sigh.
An exquisite log fire crackled in the inglenook; marmalade orange flame and epoch of memories lit the otherwise dark and dreary living room— I am intrigued, for a poem begs to be read on his beckoning lips: of woods, quiet wars and feral seas.
I have known rivers: known what it’s like to stand on the edge of centuries passing one by, the many rustic hues of submerged pebbles are more priceless than any jewel. The river is a symbol of how far we have come, There is no wading over it, no swimming, no jumping in nor can we hope to cross it and still have dry feet; the river is a slumbering cobra, it lies across the land in smooth, seductive curves beguiling in the early black, cool and innocuous— are you willing to explore a myriad of dangers? I can’t wait adding to the torrent coming from the periwinkle sky is December melting from the eye of Zeus— the river is my heart pounding ever so ceaselessly, this year is not what we prepared ourselves for, the vicious swell before us makes the boat we have pulled with an old war-horse look like it will simply be our coffin, carrying us out to sea rather than to the opposite bank. I have known rivers: a slice of mellow harmony amidst aromatic leaves this moment belongs to me and me alone; the river is ever flowing, is there anything remotely as reliable as this water?
Speak to me; inundate with your eyes until the fields are awash, now and forever in the pink city of my heart where we stand before each other— feverish and yet willing to bridge the chasm with wretchedness forgotten. Come what may; we must convey through a single ignition of this phrase, taste the saltiness of each other’s views and opinions; isn’t this what Persephone initially dreamed of? I have seen many a cloud shudder when the earth’s shook with flowers, a cross between blood red and fuchsia— dear harrowed, hapless and hurting, I am conscious of sharp tang of emotional trauma and pain, let your song hurtle through the startled air, uninhibited. Sweet is the promise of rain after a long drought, let me be the answer; let me be the answer.
Delirious, dauntless and dissolute – this Autumn breeze, brilliant petals of pink and gold that serve as a backdrop to tousled hair and reddening contour; reading what I have just written, I now believe that the season is synonymous, the growing cycle gifts with both ripeness and maturity; it’s no less than a step towards realizing, recognizing and reclaiming true self.
I am what I have always been – fiery, determined with a purpose of
fulfilling my life’s direction. You say that trees bring their art to the world,
their branches taking root in the sky— but tell me for I understand not, I
have lived so long with rough-barked beauties, so long that I’d hug them
had there not been people flitting around. Do they feel the way we do?
And when the season wraps them in scarlet, do they carry on with hope?
Basket of figs is enough to wish upon; saccharine, swirling dark empty spaces, do they really exist for us to lose ourselves in? For the avoidance of doubt the chords of guitar have marked these fingers, they are washed all over faded denim snug, ripped at the knees and hot. I’d like to think the one you conceal from everyone is visible to me and my breath only; stirred, the winter wind continues to blow now that the leaves from the sugar gum trees have fallen, they are so proud as though carob skin was their glory all along- they are instruments meant to cajole the swooping birds; won’t you listen, the bluegrass is something of a wonder that beckons even from a distance.