the absent embrace of your lips
holds a vast expanse of emptiness
any moment I believe
your tongue might summon me,
your slave, your willing servant
to the precipice of your peach glossed
hot breath and highlight infused sweat
tittered in between our intimate moments
our cheeks rubbed against one another
our mouths overwhelmed, dripped in lustful saturation
your taste had always been pomegranate
your neck, salty as wild rice
I recall your gasps
excited by my mouth of bitter cocoa
my skin loud, mimicking our Kush clouds
its sad to believe we have lingered
silently, mere inches between our navels
our hands tracing each other's sorrow
each finger pricked against a broken heart
I'd like to believe our end was softer
gentle like your hips
the continual pressing of forgiveness
against us, between us, within us
whispered from your long lost lover
pressed against your glistening lip
old lovers still hold feelings.
ah, love. singing.
weaving through peace lilies
a single swan's head
craning, not yet in bloom
I'm pruning and
roll your hands over
soft and sad
the TV mummers
low, dancing along with
laughs emanating from
soft cotton yarn, balled
up and around our raven fawn
warm slats of sun
wander in from the window
and the music
and the shears
and the mummers
and giggling peels
create the song
love intends to hear.
a nice afternoon with my husband and daughter.
ravenous fingers are too soon satiated
and settle into slumber under the bones of the oak
they used to scurry like spiders
weaving beautiful silk webs under her skirt
she is now hollowed, without marrow, like the drinking gourd
too eagerly poured, molding sharp clay
into fertile soil
won't be long before she shatters
too worn and apathetic to be a lover
and who will shoulder blame?
the scornful sun?
the weight of water?
or the absent touch of her
willow trees lightly touch against the outer panes
perhaps in angst of seeing scattered leaves
within the study.
the room is muddy, hosting burnt auburn couches
and rust settees,
chestnut book casings, and warm amber
the forest inside is a colorful fall, but the book spines stay frozen
unlike the oaks ******* outside
shrubs within find home in terracotta
outside the vines dip their toes in soil
and the master pens and pines inside the spines of
ancient trees, while the willows outside
stand watching, tapping their fingers
asking to grow inside.
a simple writing prompt, asking us to describe our ideal writing room.
I finally found you again
its been years but
I could never forget your
barley laced breath,
your burial only hid
the covers of your flesh
who knew that you would
into someone I had never met
dipping himself in liquor
his angered tremble
is reminiscent of yours
how foolish was I to believe
you would ever let me out the broken
door of my existence
you must have missed this
you must have wished this
curse upon me!
I suppose its expected when a tomb
remains occupied with life
if only you would die
if only you would drown yourself
lifeless in liquor
if only you would bury me too
and leave me well enough behind.
It's been 5 years since I have spoken to my alcoholic/pill addicted dad, but sometimes I see him peering from behind the eyes of my lover.
Trees are allowed to grieve.
crumpled sorrow falls in vividness
painting the floor
in ruby red blood, rust orange sweat,
decay brown despair.
trees are allowed the luxury of death
reverting back into their core, their roots
escaping the brutal truths winter brings
hardened in the wind
confirmed in the frozen ground they have
festooned in the envious demons they surmounted
trees are allowed to bloom again
triumphant over their darker seasons.
without giving cause
without giving reason.
Perhaps this is the vitality of the forest
the humble and solitary
transformation found in death.
I’m whirling about
There’s fruit I’ve never seen
Hanging from the ceiling
Collections of rusted
Playthings of my
The people here
Mimic the eclectic offerings
Every part of the group
I feel cherubic laughter
Quiver my lungs again
I head for home
Clutching a book
From this impeccable
A wonderful friend of mine invited me to the local flea market, and I couldn’t resist writing about it
— The End —