In cloud forest sighs take refuge;
become loud in soft light
as wintry wind blows hair into artistic swirls–
am I supposed to laud the mountains?
Be in visual empathy with red poppies below?
I am torn between the two.
Lines composed so that he would dishevel
his hair; as rays sweet
come upon moss softened rocks,
oh, let them be–
in cobalt blue of the sky, shimmer unconfined;
I find, I am unable to breathe otherwise.
Would that Neruda lend me some words;
scent of magnolias, peach
and a chorus bold,
for dusk pales in comparison to contours–
who can define hypnotic lustre,
in a world where romance is a thing of the past,
the grey-brown of his pupils,
confirm what otherwise remains hidden,
I confess, they bewitch me with their wild civility,
now, especially when the sea is wanton.
And yet, somehow, he deems himself as ordinary,
what devilry is this
that buds between complicated hours of life
and death, blossom in return–
would that Frost lend me insight,
a luscious escape
into the wilderness so as to collect my thoughts,
I shall, then, describe the numerous ways
in which he dismisses the pulsating of heart;
I claim full responsibility.
Hair disheveled after lines are composed.
Picture courtesy: Pinterest
It’s happening! Lillian is our lovely hostess at dVerse on Thursday & Saturday!
Come read a poem or just listen. We look forward to seeing you! 💖
Posted for Two Opportunities to join us LIVE @dVerse Poets Pub