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
© 2017 cdd all rights reserved

NaPoWriMo 2017 #7

Glory’s voice, utterer, potter’s wheel clay culled of Crone Moon and Milky Way,

Starchild, do not seek tenders and hope amongst the colors of your visioned sight,

The heart who claims love yet, holds the darkness as for you a guiding light,

Captive, craven you shall become, as the raven is to the black he sought for envy,

Feed them not with green pools, copper lamp pupil gated souls. sweet glance or glare,

For turning away will their mechanism be, to fantasy, id and ego plated, awaited,

Delicious dishes mirrored selves, both snails and eggs and puppy dog tails,

Go out instead and dress the trees in this your lorn laced ruffled sleeves,

Arm fulls embrace, curtsy the leaves, kissing bark veins, cheeking mossy tellings,

Drawn water as if sapling springs from mountain thaws, awakening warmth in their further fruits,

Not yet even a bud of thought in a twig’s lonesome dreams, when Autumn sings,

There will be found the seeds, the husk for Earth and Star’s child to circle round,

Rhyme past thyme sleeping lazy in the summer sun swinging on the ripened vine,

Hop the creek, toes to minnows cool waters, and algae slimes as tadpoles divine time there,

Now lives for the beauty the children feel in their close and most precious Host,

The Voices of our souls can not express lest we sing the cellular Nature songs,

When we were and Who we are while dancing to Where shall we go next my friend ?

NaPoWriMo 2017 #6

Bella Rosa Dreams

(for all my Sisters who have survived to rise again)

I used to come here to write … to find some semblance of sanity in this otherwise maddened waking world … today there are people squawking venom at each other and pretending to call that love … love grows on a willow trees, from welts the flesh  pleas while tied fast to the briers’ sting … you’d rather Cerridwen’s swine be dragging you through the cold December mud than pray your hand defend you in the fight for freedom … for that child has every right to bear dignity … oh yes, it’s still the mind bend of whips and chains, the stare of wishes into coffin remains that will greet you each day … black nights spent looking for a candle flicker beneath the doorway, from some enchanted creature who stole through the gates undiscovered … to shadowing their light on a darkness of your poems … perhaps, she’s floating on a muddled puddle reflection … the moonless night left when he trundled off to bed behind the castle ruins … dragons of chained for eating the neighbors cows again… she found a slip knot and shimmied through to bring me a single ray of hope … to weave catching my breath through curls and carry quietly … for when it all got too blue we’d pull it out and blast them back to the hell from hence they came… Tonight though, be it night or day it matters not for light never reaches us here … I am bound about laid out and powdered, oiled, perfumed, and laced up to view … to skew … to pile drive with out even a word … Tonight I’m yours to do …
Your back gulching drum driven desires crawl scream tagged and beaten back down my darkest faith forbidden fathomless bottom hole … where I lay worn in pretty bows your mind assigns to cover tattered worn ash … where only hatred flames remain … the gains of piercing bores bite first my back flesh.. yes, gain your stronghold there, while you bust me from behind dig the very marrow of your finger bones though my breasts to the hollow my heart used to reside in before I let you dine on my self negligence … tear them from my torso if you will … I am bound … I am will less … rip out my hair if i would lend you my neck … veins to slice and suckle madly … red velvet love wine spilling over … flowing fount of your mouth’s gauge and the violent bucking you train my ass to follow or it’s more pain for me … my bound arms back about your neck … legs tied wide you could stand with me if you wished … if you dared … I am surrender in every language a man every sought to teach a woman … since he found she could subdue him with her selves … If you get greedy enough to lick the blood running down my spine in a Kundalini serpentine candy column crimson velvet … wings will sprout from your wounds and I will grow horns upon my raven black head … i will spear you if you dare give me an opening … for We are the daughters of Goddess, her hand maidens … born to the breasts of the Valkeries when the Our Father sought us too eagerly , too soon, too sickly for his wounds …

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

NaPoWriMo 2017 #5

Luna Love

The foul leave feathers for me daily in trails to gather … from the barn to the Iron Wood tree stand yonder … at the crest of the meadow hill flanking the logging roads … crevices are home to the Luna moths and moon beams … their winter homes in the catacombs … Christmas past’s silent seed pods … the morning stars descending from the heavens … holding ground bound cocoons in blessed rest … assured peace till April came with lip-less kisses … the caterpillars have hatched … soon there will be more to save and shade from the sun … their short life and love expressed in a quiet transmission … souls hear eons apart …

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

In the Land of Paper Cranes

Honor reigns as the code of the rain in the Land of Paper Cranes … the unspoken behest of Grandmothers nurturing the world eggs beneath celestial capes of eternal down … flight wings of Spirit pressed between the woodpecker’s page gown lining their nest with light as children palm innocence … Here the bamboo moths quiver spun and quest, their life span willing metaphors … our fragile vapors searching for ignition in this land of forbidden flames … we all remain silk worm pupae attainment … where upon slip current pale veins often succor lotus stamen perfume and dreams die … sea, land, wind, or water fowl born demure and azure cored are we all … the truest trowel beak bill to web footed alliances yet descend from ancient egret masters … parchment creased folding crisp mountains to beg a valley’s hand … paisley kaleidoscope sand hill dancing twixt marble eyed maybes and wishes on the wings we are … those who want the breeze to take us gently as a duckling … bounce love on its knee until we all believe or leave the pond to those who … origami light by stardust mirrors when night has awakened hidden hopeful smiles …

 © 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

Tunnel… I’m not the only one …

A lake lies dead … sickness fills its gills at the ice’s edge … hurried clutter and cramped fur decaying abide … an open mouth surface sucking blue gill seeking the blessings of summer air … a litter moisture white flake scatter of two foot fair channel cat and their grass carp brothers in arms … they were ships in their former life … now barely magnetic worth in a pond of a sea … the eagles land when the strength of winter holds fast against the sun’s wobble spun proclamations … they fill their purposes with craven mouthed worm gills from death’s cold clay …

As for me … I exist on kindness and crackers … the coffee of other’s honest obituaries and funeral home basement sugar cube seven year old powdered cream misunderstandings … oatmeal cookies the Basset hound found forgotten or meant shared later to maddened murder, a mayhem with smiling songs … the children, they are passing as well … one by one of strange prophecies, illness or curse … poppets perhaps, directed to eat my hair while I sleep  … dreaming of lovers just beyond the shores of all my ancient oceans … spells to banish boogeymen some dare to own twice … I care not pardon those who choose to sacrifice the seeds to save fruit left un-harvested, un-hailed, and impotent to glory’s grace in exchange for a moment’s licking fire parade of id or ire, either shamed … Will I burn in some fresh hell for this confession that my love of all transcends my love of self ? … I may … Comfort sends me postcards from those who will join me and we plan our potlucks, vegetarian and cruelty-free whenever possible …

Does The Creator seek religion each time war seems endless between his unruly children ? … Did The Christ child within the man looking toward the heavenly home in prophetic hues of black betrayal ? … Is this why we have cultivate flower gardens … to pay for our inability to not break the truth that he came here to show us … that our love could save him … not the obtuse … each day he breathed the bait, yet, remained for Love is the ghost and the game, the trial, the cross, the only healing shot in the veins … driving the damaged onto a frigid tile floor of some convenient store … both have forgotten why at times … toilet water dipped in pain’s stains to thin the sap he gifted those too beautiful to remain whole … once the illusion slipped the remains of memory into the shape shifting phos-copper flames of lotus elixirs … our silver brazed brass glands gasping outside the rain … no end, nor order, never hope to hold the few remains of perishing chased scissor lace … cirrus clouds which banish the bane of dagger thrust sanity …

Meanwhile, … here I am ever weaving webs of light in the corners of Bethlehem … the Spirits of my Grand Mothers ever guiding my hands … tears spun to likened lamp oil light only the Holy may see … praying for wishing horses to ride once again … I never cease believing, though there are some things my heart desires blindness to …

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

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 …