We were where we thought to be …

Empty palms may read mere molecular blinds … those scents Spring dares not harness when the lilacs vine … beyond bordered crimes heart held inductive spinal tines … we … originations of the arbor and the eyes wine seeks to know the soul through … how can our colors be mistaken for hues the sun forbid creation …  our magic muses of black matter’s time … my hope has held the dove’s anklet alone with no other prize … save the sweet and somber carousel of your reprise … host of Spirit’s own voice in rebel sighs … and how I live to hold a penny or a pint of this presence … luck laboring might find … scatterings of laughter, warmth, resign, to our being where we thought ourselves to be …

Advertisements

Bending to Your Fancy

Winter’s willing bride again cradles the looking glass which Spring, as maiden, held seeming moments ago … dewy instrument of visage fortunes, the lullaby of seasonal bitter brace … Her fair sun portrait now locked in Sisters’ crystal orb, birch lace, and paper mittened graces … She stands whole in the disillusions of Persephone’s interrupted resurrection … the flocked seasons of red wheat, Her crown … pale as the wash with which She holds time bridled, bitten, and seeking … Her soul engulfed in the creation of brindle frost and frond the Love only the Poet and His Poem alone are able to awaken and possess … He reigns over Summer’s fire and Autumn in its stolen wonder … She whisper’s to the night’s fragile ebony tangle … Yours … Now … Sometimes … and Ever …

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

Happy Valentine’s Day, Darling …

prod000352

Morning breaks in the red ruddy flames of Dawn’s plumb and blush … sleepless bedlam born have I been with wine stung eyes masked in anticipation … anxious tears wear the dancing crone’s stem in ritual cascades beneath a mighty thundering gather … my skirts are yellow as Rudbeckiah’s petals with cornflower ruffles, polka dotted and gingham in the manner the Phoebe sings … its own joyful soul liquid in trills and moss maiden purposes … It is in his love’s bower my heart keeps spry, wise, and sunrise surprised at what news the blue skink shall bring to window pane … poem and uttered palette knife collage travels through ions on spider web silk succor and chalk painted prayers … beetle dung orb anchored celestial illuminations affixed to his canvas slipping wormhole wobbles with the ancient excrement of all peoples in One skin … this is his Spirit’s time clock and rip cord flying squirrel sun dial, where it’s always the moment of Now … of his most precious choosing … My gladness buds from the rust of city rail and rain gutter drain remains from lord less fools who disdain such beautiful veins … cat whisker chin tickling garden gains thrive where color cast Babbit grains and the granite Adam roams the maze … ever a seeker of a finer faire cause rosy sway … tis noble I say … a cause I sink satin and sword alike in to stay a course worthy of Inanna’s grace … for I love him as soul’s first felt lace in the darkness when reaching towards Light … auric circumference of Luna’s bright shadow … I, ever bitten, brave, and bare throated in happy bondage to love’s priceless surrender.
2/14/2017

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved