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 Oct 2020 Medusa
Seranaea Jones
the moon is your element,
underneath it you alight
with its pure lunar dew

all senses become the air and
the water as your heartbeat
sends ripples into me

i can feel that and more as fingertips
trace my reaction to it gently
upon your bare skin back

but it seems beyond my capacity to
channel the energy and lift from you
the heaviness of your thoughts

so we sit still as i let you
bathe quietly within
your element

if you happen to glance and
catch me gazing upward,
remember—

the stars, they are
                               all mine...


"As stars eclipse the Moon"
© 2008 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
for Katt...
 Oct 2020 Medusa
Seranaea Jones
did i lose it already ?
this fragile notion
piercing the fog
that hovers my ocean ?

i must place it
somewhere safe
so i may remember
the fragment
if not the face

perhaps this snippet
of waste?
     no, there is
not left a whit of space

Here is the vessel,
a white bleached and
prepared remnant
of an elm or a spruce        
that once
stood
         Tall
and shaded the sun
from exhausted lost
explorers—

cut stripped and
diced
to provide
               for Me
this small
space,

so i may forget...

"memory paper"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
from an idea
in 2008
 Oct 2020 Medusa
Seranaea Jones
-

—                                           /..\
                                              >@<
                                            when
                                       the house is
                                   otherwise empty
                            aside from me, the senses
                   of you seek out the most minuscule
               of things to woof at, a fault line between
             loneliness and apprehension slips a little in
     the path you must take to sniff my hand as it gestures
your tiny pitched notes into the silent end of this open space—

"Come..."
                                         ­   


                                                           ­                                         


"the small dog at the end of a hallway"
© 2010 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
 Oct 2020 Medusa
Seranaea Jones
i felt a presence as i walked
past its shadow between
restless sunbeams and
lazy dark patches

too small to fill a stadium and
too light to resist a breeze,
it could not muster the most
muted sigh of thunder

still, it singled me out from acres
of trees and multi-laid squares
of rooftop hide-aways

and followed—

to send a message of being
to an insignificant recipient

through a small break within
divided thoughts, into a brief
opening underneath—

a single drop, into a
downpour of
tears




"the cloud"
© 2008 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
 Oct 2020 Medusa
onlylovepoetry
People say they don’t understand [my songs], but I never believe that.
It’s like understanding an embrace…
”Leonard Cohen

<>for cj<>

perhaps, there is someone in this world, who does not
understand an embrace; something physical no doubt.

perhaps, you thought that first kiss was the portal to
shedding the inhibitors, lobes stings, first arousal aroma.

but you’ve been practicing embracing from toddler age,
but someday, it traverses from hugs to all-encompassing,

the sensory adaptors, go wild from shock; and you think
to yourself, dear god, you’ve been holding back on me!

   <>

two hands,
smooth the shoulders, slide down, elbows grasp,
you’ve been taken unawares, while fully aware you’ve been,
taken, taken, and need to take, more and back, take again,
and you can’t decide between reciprocation or incantation
breaking separation, if only to start over from the last lingering...

touching vibration and every sense erupting, and you think
I’ve never been fully  embraced, and now I understand the
music and muscle of your poetry, and will add my verses,
lay on my stanzas,
ocean crossings, seafaring voyages, exploring hands on hips,
then encapsulating another’s face, stroke, not squeezing

arms come to rest on a pacific neck, the hairs tensile teasing,
and you can’t believe this newly formed addiction and why
everyone simply doesn’t go about constant craving embracing,
racingoverloading uncomprehending, it’s fulsome fulfilling, quenching
a new thirst, a new taste, extending your ******* reach everywhere

you clear the catch, the cache, and your voice now begs, announces,
commands, whispers, screams, so many things that all emerge as
simply a guttural exclamation raw and needy, again, again, again,
you say it as if that was your vocabulary entire, a one word language
because it is, it is, the language of insatiable, the speech of
only love poetry*
embracing.
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference

through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings

my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems

funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission

I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice

my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
 Oct 2020 Medusa
Nat Lipstadt
I think, therefore I am.

(5) the possible poems lurk about, here a title,
there a verse without a home, and, despite
cogitating brings no fusion, no unity or home
heading, where the sigh of conjoining both
brings mental *******, organic relief, worth.

(6) the temperature now cool regularity, enough that
a distinctive line crossed, setting from Cool to Heat,
an inflection point of persona, weather, aging,
daytime whispers can no long be avoided,
a choral crescendo, delayed by lazy summer illusions
that permitted us to put off abnormal life as normal.

(7) I think, therefore I am, but I do not feel,
sufficiently, therefore I write a title here,
verse there, but no poem completes because,
as I update my list of people I worry about, I am,
ineffectively yours, lacking answers for you, in all
our present tenses, some of you are on it, even if no notification
sent, selfishly pondering if my name appears on someones list

ah, these miscarriages of miscellaneous mumbles don’t
qualify as worthwhile, so I pre-apologize for wasting your time
trying, pushing myself to go from thinking, of you, so, therefore
you exist, but if I cannot give you the feelings deserved, then,
what good am I?


conundrum.

11:26 AM Sat Oct 10
2020
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