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 …

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Happy Valentine’s Day, Darling …

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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

Luna Moth Fever

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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

Holy Vapors

4102464783_9d1fc299a0_oMary in a Roman Catholic Church in Chicago

I had forgotten what it feels like to breathe … taking in lungfuls I could claim as my own … for the moments we had held them … the utter thoughtless exchange, otherwise now a dwelling stay … I’ve been giving it away so long … to anyone who will take it … or was it to anyone who would let me have a dram … does it matter what caused the stain when a cancer is the day’s remains ? … he said he saw all my pain in the betrayal of my soul’s window panes … suffocated lambs behind them lain in poultry rows for counting games … shims and shacks, shake and shame … the balance of the blade became soft once I realized … air left volume to perception’s choice … to the dreaming city sinking sea bound at the break of a new eon … terrible in the white blaze it wrought before us …   we held cirrus clouds in our cheeks just then, inverted O~ring memories … praying to undertake the glorified transfiguration and not become their Holy wafer … but the vapor, each breathe seeks to pass across in death.

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved June 11, 2015

… on the edge of time she has waited …

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… on the edge of time she has waited … toes sipping the star pools spinning galaxies with stories her eyes hide for lack of magic handling by snake doctors and fools … she only thought she had a song or knew the colors of darkness … the night rainbow’s secrets or the rose’s dew in her playful potions … until you tapped her on the shoulder with your “May I take you by surprise?” … like Alice she began tumbling through the gates of … at last there will be a crest to align worlds to … undone … balls of molecular twine your dendrites to hers for they are ever rearranging … to suit the lovely star maps you leave upon her mind with even the mere whisper … the slight sigh … completed is her undone in all that is thine … breath of new convergence … morning … noon … and night …

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Button clad agaric caution …

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Button clad agaric caution hosts the greenest compliments the mosses know to braille brush the aspen’s whispers … with surest harmony found beneath the courageous first ice to die in Spring’s frail hands … the steam of your tea pot, bath, and clinging window vapors … The forest path urged me to gain all I could from the shadows and stem of tree tailored light … I nodded not wanting to break your silence.

© 2016 cdd All Right Reserved

PhotoCredit: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amanita_muscaria#/media/File:2006-10-25_Amanita_muscaria_crop.jpg

Saying Goodbye

420957_365555960124650_989349055_nSaying Goodbye, well that’s simply not possible … we are a part of each other now … you have not listened, when the breeze leaves the lake headed for window’s broken pane … to reach your sweet flesh again … daily, I write … when the heat is too much to bear … sweat culling my back as droplets off the twigs of Pinyons in the thawing mountain mornings … these paths in my mind clear enough to hear the raven’s wing stroke silence above … the fans lull illusions away … mere fingers for clothing and digit~less prayers to pray … Do you softly gently ever ? … Do eyes remain in a bowl upon the chair ? … I fingertip and hand dance, holy …  muscle moist and glorify the imperfection … be the gift what was intended when we became … It’s been so long since I’ve dropped clean through the net like this … and yes, the thought of you does …

© 2016 Cdd  all rights reserved