You, clipped little fragments
divided and crumbled
as the asymmetrical pinions
of the Winged Samothrace,
I spoke ****** soft spoken”
unedited, fluid, effortless,
aroused by Fortune
and I was christened
within rapture, your creator’s
“poisoned wounds” and “secret pains”
electrifying my heart and mind
inspiring such a preface
such a volatile violet passion
and I am moved by this color
by this flower
by this name
those fragrances still pouring
centuries after decimated
marble, demolished syllables
slaughtered by gender or genius
status or progression
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
Through silky grass and waters blue
Do the joints click into
Shapes of knowing wing or bone
Stretching, enchanted
And nerve and vein hums, pulses
An ancient tune between
Breathless heaves
The trembles of heartbeats
For a simple reflex of a finger to lips
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
“What is the act of poetry?” - Eleni Sikelianos
Staid or coiled is the staff
riddled with notes of ecstasy
or fleshed nature intermingling
with green of earth and body
or breath and the azure of sky
wafting through passionate veins
or confessional infested fingertips
scratching formulaic codes
or rushing silky odes to a pagan anima
exhaling through muscle and nerve
or the carnal of being and progress
polished of unspoken decay
or blessed stride into a future
polished of a lingual woe
or illuminating confidence
embedded proudly within this moment
roused by senses or autobiography
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC