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 …
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.
© 2017 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
The prompt tonight was to use a fortune cookie saying in some way in our poem. I keep all my fortunes in my purse. Odd little quirk of mine. This is one of my favorites, Punctuality is the politeness of kings and the duty of gentle people everywhere.
NaPoWriMo 2016 #13
“Punctuality is the politeness of kings and the duty of gentle people everywhere. “, said Miss Ling, as she opened the door for her guest.
“Then I must be a king tonight.” chortled Dishi, ” Quite happy I wore my silk that is best!”
“Please,” she motioned, “come inside. The dumplings are steaming and the rice is already fried.”
“I am hungry !! ” he exclaimed, then felt a little ashamed. “I miss dumplings since Mother died.”
“You are our honored guest tonight, Dishi. I made your Mother’s dumplings special for you.” Miss Ling took his arm as he deftly offered.
In they strolled, friends rose in welcome, amidst candle light, aromas, and a table full of delicious coffers.
© 2016 cdd All Right Reserved
Photo Credit: https://www.papermasters.com/zen-buddhism.html
You pass through my body in moments of which I feel need … the sheet of your shadow creasing into my bones … as is you are in this very room … motioning the air about in rub tickle tones of molecular slow and salty tangos … the way someone might on a train caught in the sliver shot of a fall rush … people pass hiding they felt a spark … hand brushing the back, a wool coat … that back leaning into a woman’s breast, grazing her into a soft silence … I look up from my work searching the room for your coffee brown eyes … seeking some spark of synaptic contact we wove in voice overs on the phone when winter was brutal … shut in and shouting out for some humanity to hear and claim us … If I can’t have your hands I’d settle for your eyes on me … in resting moments I lay the blanket of your Self upon me … tucking your head under my chin, your arms encompassing me … I listen to the changing rhythms of my heartbeat and I sleep … you whisper there will be cooked beans when I awaken and leave the kindest parts of you behind to keep me warm … my eyes close as you leave the room… the door cracked only a little bit … You pass through me at times …
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved
You say I work too much,
But I can’t get enough work done,
To get me close to you,
There aren’t enough hours in the day,
Or moments in the brief time we exchange,
To soak you up so I won’t dry out,
So, I won’t need to come for another drink of you,
I try to lasso the sun and stop it from setting,
Everyday it drags me down with it,
Into the night of I have to go now,
Tomorrow is coming,
There is not stopping it.
At least I know each day,
The light had to pass through you to get to me,
Can we at least share the moonlight?
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved
Was I dreaming of the snails or were the snails dreaming of me?
It will be a long ordeal now… this arriving at the door of happiness … silver has been sold for you, Mountain Man … that would never have been gifted to another not even in death … yours was the most sacred of trusts … Do we heal from the inside out where the soul light stirs closest to the truth of our wounds … or from the salves of the world’s doing ? … it is in joining that we heal … it has always been … the thirst for your mouth deeper still budding in the furrows of my heart song … to be inundated by how we laughed at our human cleverness … Tumble tossed key, locks scramble ordered before Alexander or Napoleon … either yield the same solutions … break us all by the years … by the thousands and we will bow still and justly before the Law of the King of soul … Lavender scented skin and the way my hair would have fallen about your face… when the world was lost Eleventh Universe electric slow ride … Home … you are my home … dreams to awakening … hope to tears … and such blessed growth for which I am ever thankful … yet, … today, I remain homeless.