The rains have come, at long last … the only beings which may stop time for me since the tree herder departed these matron-less woods … their cleansing tie dyes the mourning frost awakening the clover and naked ladies to blossom once more … I whisper only cherry seedlings.

The droplets must make a due as tears upon my apples cheeks … for the Lord of Fulgurites turned me to a dimpled sand dame moons ago … said sorrows loosing their path in the depths of “I love you, not” petal’s rotten refuse … still I ache for tenderness of his incapability.

So, let the mosses drink and feed well the ground ivy … fill the wanting pond, wash dust from emerging Summer’s hope … soak shall my seeking belly brood … the land will well recall my fair face and limbs of lacy longing … reborn I shall become in such sweetest glomming.

© 2020 CDD All Rights Reserved

I Want To Hear Your Voice

“ I Want To Hear Your Voice “

The newborn ducklings struggle with soft slumber toward a peace where the wild water’s edge knows no fear … a space once spoken of beneath kiss remised promises of star drizzled mew … red and orange roses, sea foam lace ribboned in Armenian mythologies …

Garter snakes sun themselves upon old growth stumps in the morning … before humankind awakens, they copulate coiling slick cool surrenders on the spawny mosses beneath Lady’s Mantle umbrellas … Though their mouths will ever remain too unsubstantial to feed on the fowl’s wet lain eggs, their nest hidden in dawn’s memory of how we sought each other within this same warmth …

Time has been a cruel mistress, a mere flicker remains to the white moths my heart light has harbored for you … I do not turn to the darkness, even when the battlements seem to have taken you away … this time for a permanence I cannot bear … stealing my garden chimes and sing song rhymes …

The flitting willow bird’s nod, shy as it may be, longs for the life we dreamt of … berry jams and honey comb drippings from shared syllables, tonal tantric rituals, beholden to one beloved breath … a tactical onomatopoeia …

The Light cried for the Goddess’ cause banishing beauty to the Underworld … selective seduction abides now lingering where once the salamanders paused to gaze in the clear night’s smoky vapors … only Her wisdom remains in the valleys of blue bell springs or cedar swept winters … searching for coupling every molecule until love’s quest thirst defends, hope sitting unsheathed, mercy amended, awaiting the tongues of grace in fallen snows and ashen oven understanding … to Unbind hearts knotted by misconceptions …

© 2018 CDD All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

Grief… the guilt — Aria-Bella Rises

It has been 8 full moons since my little right hand pooch left his body. 8 months of me processing, feeling, hiding and dealing with grief in all of its forms. Here is some learning that I have taken from it… this applies to anyone whether they have lost a pet, a friend, a […]

via Grief… the guilt — Aria-Bella Rises

Life is ever flowing ebb of rising/sweeping remission of emotional tides on which the human heart gallops. Opening the palm of the Soul to release a parent is one of the most delicate experiences I have ever been through. Still, walking this path’s journey. Love knows no bounds.
12:52 PM · Feb 15, 2018

Papa,

I believe I  am finally breathe once  more. You are ever my hero, protector, and the most brilliant man I have yet to meet. Miss you like crazy but, it is time to take that path we always talked about so many hours beneath our beloved trees here.

All  My Love,

Your Baby Doll

Walter C. Dunlap of Revere | 1939 – 2017 | Obituary

https://www.meaningfulfunerals.net/?action=obituaries.obit_view&CFID=682708c9-909d-42a6-bc7b-d364e22fbc88&CFTOKEN=0&o_id=4447669&fh_id=11405

You Ought To Know

Portraits 2014 010

Someone has been killing our cats,

Demonic river congo rats,

Seizure tremor clabber dinner,

Milk poured from Death's sovereign vat,

Trespass coochie bubble grass,

A sea of stolen starlight cast,

To sail my soul, rasp, and sinner,

Until our veils vapor shimmer,

Love remains life's dearest need,

Whole womb, doom, venom, or seed,

Dare cause to arise, must's do plea,

Cherries sweetest cyanidic,

Forgiveness, poison, daily bleed.

In memory of Jabber Box aka Jack 
the Cowboy Cat. He was thankful for 
every mouthful he received and
defined love more concicely than 
we humans can imagine. 

© CDD All Rights Reserved 2017
© CAS All Rights Reserved 8/21/17

 

 

Oleander Greed

The catalpa pods dangle, hesitant paper laces in the hushed secrets of the Autumn winds … above and in sentry over the first blush cascades of promising rose hips, nourishment the summer fauns will savor come winter’s killing frost … slightness of the morning turning her palms in offering first testament … there uplifts a billowed lantern dance in unconcealed oneness urging the wood ducks to favor the openness of the lake’s center … thus, they ride on crystal carronades of split prism prayer parades … carnival red, gold, and green gleam … Soul drifts upon this thirst of suggestion, pagoda patter beneath cool bare feet, stone and moss married amongst calliopes with tender mints supplanted … silver bells kiss consternation pouring forth amicable intentions of reaching ignorance’s temple where rest no knowledge of ever knowing touch … the taste of mead and marigolds drunk with a dark silence met … I am your vital leech field, swamp to suckle mud fed seeds, thus, his milky and honey oleander greed.

© CDD All Rights Reserved 2017

The precipice of summer lingers …

The precipice of summer lingers lying quietly to the definitions we cling to … ritual eggs brighten rows freshly tilled by plow shears we forged from the last glance our eyes held with the starving peregrines on the ledges of the city towers … their children are dried to hollow dusty holograms … the tapping of a heart’s chain slung carelessly to trip the rainbow’s remains for their want of nurturing spittle … rain too far a distant dust bowl dagger slit in lamb’s wool absorption to quench  … we are vain, almost vulgar, in calling for a holy preservation of the child Self … the yoked sack membrane damp as the due we all crawl through eventually in suckling dread hours … the remainder of stains on duckling cliffs ruby~ing palms and knees … my toes turn in, Leo knows how it hurts, how the martin’s purple came to be … why  can’t we take our hands off the joy stick of illusion long enough to know … giving up creation to create with each other … for whatever time we are afforded by the roadside ditches or in marble mansions … ambling, rambling, or scrambling for its living breath … is by design a worthy purpose …

4-23-2017
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