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 …
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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
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
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
We hunger so,
There must be a way to quench these desires,
We’ve dream the illusion into reality,
Until rapture has taken us over completely,
The bitter salt of happy thirst,
Sweet breathe hot on open receptive pores,
Mouth upon mouth,
We want for touch and captivation,
Melding in passion’s playful discovery,
Longing for love’s manifestation in our lives.
© 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