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 …
Last poem to the present and pertinent heart … for with only a week to live … I’ve luna moth fever with you on my mind…
the plum bracket of my silvery span wrapped around seven degrees above wondering …. that which I am too humble to inquire …
Do I keep you up at night as you do this frail flight? … Can the fruit of my sweet gum branch perfuming your daydreams so … that when night falls with an elixir the moon dew dropped as your remedy …
You might hear through magic means my call … were your words ever spoken with my pale wings upon your tongue ?
© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved Aug. 7, 2015
Art Credit: Tomasz Alen Kopera
Now is the briefest passage of the gloaming light … mustard flecked goblin suspensions of Spirit’s absinthe carpet between worlds … mosaic cedar peridot shadows cast craving capillaries to crest upon ethereal shores … we wait … our nakedness hidden behind the frail coats of the illuminated unkindness of Winter … it is not yet ready to trade our smiles for the warmth Pangea may measure with both sunlight and the breath of the stars in their ecstatic chants to Baba … the forest is brief in its mating … all above and below tis sacred glow revealed as it once was … not as we made it so … bark and branch as kindred kings carrying lark, lichen, moss, and lamp likened skies of pure pervading glory … in the turning cast, the evening’s shadow, fauns a delicate blanket of faery tales yet unwritten … lovers await the deepening safety, the negral of night … to taste the darkness of surrender’s kiss …
© 2016 Cdd All Rights Reserved
Please visit this link for more of Tomasz’s astounding art work. Support the Arts They are the foundation of our freedoms. Blessings, Carla Dawn
© Tutt’Art@ | Pittura * Scultura * Poesia * Musica |
I used to come to the altar of offerings to bleed for you in single strands of my diluted blue blood punctuated elixirs … finery frost and the web of maidenhair remembrances written on winds which slumbered while my heart made ready only that which would serve thee … love was their carriage master … It was in the winter nights I wandered ice ghost stone shell of a lover left in me … East my feet blue as the vein untapped would creep … to your window panes and brittle break upon their fragile pain as toe dance I would to see you pen … bay tea and herb, parchments and hound … yet, seldom was it you I found … so in love with the moon you were that she had your gaze, your lips, the touch of that which goes beyond what most can bear or bare … the pebbles I pelted upon our skull were never felt by your mortal core … all the same you turned and smiled right through me …
© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved
The prompt today was to write a Sonnet.
“Traditionally, sonnets are 14-line poems, with ten syllables per line, written in iambs (i.e., with a meter in which an unstressed syllable is followed by one stressed syllable, and so on). ” via the NaPowriMo website http://www.napowrimo.net/
I ended up with 17 lines yet, in iambic pentameter. It has been many years since I’ve adhered to form being an utterer. I decided to leave it be. I hope you don’t mind.
How shall I be a bride to death once more,
Your black rose has been left upon my door,
Speaking of your light as if the Source,
Deaf calling cards with no hint of remorse,
The Specter came to claim my bridely hand,
That morning we were to be wife and man,
His claw upon my fair face it was froze,
And withered did he every single rose,
I ran the streets in lace and pasty pearls,
The constable was sent to search the Burroughs,
Yet, to his horrified steads broken gate,
Abandoned was the man thrown on road slate,
Lo, the guests arrived from ghostly lands,
Vows recited to the baying of Hell hounds,
Death wore bat spats and a satin tie,
I stood wishing it were I to die,
You crossing not shades to claim, love in vain.
© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved
Mother Earth, we come to you in the only way a child knows … with water and spoon … imagination and rain boots … incense and honey, as our offering … It has always been child’s desire to plant a new tree … in place of every stump we see … wishing for the all seeds to grow … we save and store those we see dwindle … to gather and learn signatures … with our crayons and colored cloth … We sing the songs of creature care … chanting through the moon as she phases … serve the season well and dwell beneath your reasons … spring must wait as it is, dealt and due … forgive us for those who trespass so … who dig your flesh, who mine your soul … we are but your children of Father Sky … left behind when time ran dry … Someday all shall dance, hand in hand … upon your sweet shell shores … in the meadow green lands … on mountain tops and valleys low … Remembering, One peace, One love, One cause for all … that our purpose as your children … contains no dross.
© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved
Photo Credit © 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved
You can’t tell by looking at her … though the signs are beginning to show … when she pauses in one place too long … there is a mechanism of self acceptance … the use to gather, grant, and capture on the face or in the eyes … a haunting never seen there before … “she had a look of thus and so” … a patch slightly to the right and down a bit from her smile … checkered promise of a wrinkle … telling ten months from now … that she didn’t eat today either … from the outside it all looks like blue jeans and suede boots … comfort from the Goodwill reject piles … a bright smile some claim is not her own … and that crazy hippy wild child abandon … if you can catch her riding red horses along the shoreline … it all seems a little less sad … for the children of light are running behind her … urging her not to leave her begging bowl behind.