Her eyes were cold sun,
Red hair shouts our love undone,
Maple leaves falling.
Gentle Gods playing—
Rain drops falling on still pond,
. . . Ancient melody.
Blueberry picking was no chore.
In the hoary-head of blue things,
Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking,
Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened
Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest
In lazy hills, round my home, — bells
Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton,
Massachusetts woods, and playing by them,
We rounded blue notes, some friends and I,
Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy-
Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted
Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton
Of any other fruit!)
Toiling, till the sky would peek
And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming
Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great
Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember-
Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns
Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple
Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even
Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors,
Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool
Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs
Of kisses, each following the greatest by far,
And one soft day, we did notice the crown
Of a Princess, set on top of each full
Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped
As if to commemorate all
The things that were worth
Knowing, stuff that was ripe,
Easy, and rapt
In blue.
Fullest milky moon—
All the stars and luna dripping,
She bathed in bright night.
True love comes but once,
In lone fields, strange emergence,
. . . When meteors hit.
Her laughter echoes,
Sorrow follows after dream,
Silence in morning.
Touching you
Feeling you
Escaping this world with you
I don’t want to feel this anymore
I can’t go on anymore
I want to breathe!
I want to breathe,
The fresh whispers of freedom,
that want to get out,
and they turn into a SHOUT!
I Want To Breathe Freely
To be me
To Dance and Sing and Hug your very Being
I want to breath
Inhale your essence
In one look capture your essence
I glance across the room
I see you.....seeing me
But you can’t see
That I can’t breathe
Suffocated by Society
Need to be free
So many things that they want of me
But I just want to be free
Free to touch you
Free to feel you
Free to breathe fresh whispers in your ear
Free to shout "I Love You!" without fear
By Kevin Michael @April 4th 2013
You come around
And make me feel,
Like I don't want to feel,
As if the only way is your way,
What am I to think? How can I heal?
Are all majestic colours impishly yours?
I walk alone on glare streets of harsh silence,
In rushing crowds of coldness, darkest and deep
Loneliness, you have made mourn of sun
My punisher, you have stolen music
Out from under my fumble hands,
Your eyes are like confusion,
My heart has nil defense,
I wait for you to let me go,
My hopeless prayer,
But I am undone
No, I never will
Be known, nor
Your only
One.
He gave her his love,
Salt of her tears— shining gift,
Both heaven and earth.
Delicious is a word I save for you.
Chocolate comes close but feeds me only
Famine. Your skin is blest three times,
Once for new redolence. Bay leaved
To the core, you proffer memories
Which chamber the years in round rooms,
Opening freely into rouge galleries
Of spice. Secondly, it is soft as summer
Water. It draws itself toward touch
Like ripples skipping over a sweating pond,
Lapping its way towards the creamy shore.
The third gift of your skin is the colour
Of desired destination, an instrument
Which maps the mirror of a universe,
Because you are deckled with stars so heady,
You are wet smoke from drooling galaxies
And rose white fathoms of sky, they are pooling,
And pulling me with force so fulsome
As to be almost—
Tasteless.
The firm green bread of spring,
The blue blood of heaven and the milky
Sun, these are your flavours all intermingled,
And three piquant senses speak to my tongue;
I smell, I touch, I taste— you are,
Delicious.
