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Melodious tides serenade along a foam dipped coast line,
we drift as a single composed symphony,
seduced by a pounding surf, its sensuous rhythm pulsates
flooding our hearts, aching to collide
in the tempo of a lone torrent’s embrace

Scorching August passions seize the moonlit sand,
palm tree shadows dance atop sultry weathered dunes
of lemongrass and saw palmetto,
on saltwater breezes moaning our names, mellifluously
from a distant cantata's horizon

Warm dark *** skin intoxicates, I stagger,
lost in hypnotic topaz eyes, reflective pleadings
of deeper desires sought, fingertips probe sun softened locks,
nightshade tresses, mingling with a rippled surf
as stardust illumines moist swollen lips, parted  

Harmonic waves wash atop entwined silhouettes
nearing a crescendo, a pinnacle of pleasure,
where secrets are revealed in half swallowed sighs  
on this coastal haven when voices sing in
throaty whispers of impassioned ecstasy

Now as heated breaths hover beneath the moon’s glowing stare
we too build and recede, feeding our amorous desires
as the fading night relinquishes its hold and dawn cracks the sky
Our tide becomes one, our union remains unbroken,
our love, eternally bound by the melody of the sea
Upon deceit I've built a kingdom;
A mighty fortress declaring freedom.
She stands up tall; brave as can be
And gazes outward toward the sea.
But when one’s castle’s built on sand,
There is a chance it may not stand.
For secrets hide behind her doors
And crawl through cracks beneath her floors.
Until the light sheds on the lies,
The castle wears her sweet disguise
And secrets linger without a sound
Until the kingdom tumbles down.

                                                               ­   "The wind rustles the forget-me-nots
                                                                ­      In the many balcony flower boxes
                                                           ­                       And so the shrieks of foxes
                                                                ­                               lose their distance."

She’s inside,
finding her bearings.
Fiddling her earrings
******* cardamom pods
And smoking licorice black cigarettes
Her lips faintly popping as the smoke escapes,

                                                       ­   Pop,

And reflecting how she’s been
As lucky as lavender isn’t.

                                                         ­         "the wind sharpens the beach dunes
                                                           ­                    flutters my tangerine towel,"

                                                      Po­p, pop,

                                                           ­        "fills my little girl's glitter-gel shoes"


                                                    ­      Pop

She rubs it out before she sets it down,
sharpening her eraser.
Settling her glass
no chaser.

Her cigarette smokes on its own in the ashtray
a straight grey line caught in the breezes
from the door frame and under the floorboards,
like a seismograph recording of a dancer’s hips
or like any sound man could ever consider making,
escaping up to heaven from the tip of Babel.

She takes back her black ***
Before any more paper evaporates.

                                                         Pop, pop

Her poems are great shipping tanker oil spills
of vowels,
hoping the reader feels their lips
mouthing kisses along with it.

                                                            ­  Pop

                                                          ­                           "no one ever really tastes
                                                                ­                          one another on theirs,
                                                                ­                                                or saliva,
                                                         ­                                                       so weak
                                                            ­                                     weak as the smell
                                                                ­                                  of potent *****."

Now the wind's at the window,
disturbing a spider
abseiling slowly
and inevitably
as falling snow

                                                           ­    Pop

into the ashtray.
A lifetime of weary acceptance of tragedy.

                                                      ­       -Stub-
Playing with page placement, I wanted people to imagine there was a line of cigarette smoke running straight up it's center, or a spider abseiling down on a thread, separating the real from the poem.
Dig a deep hole
                   bury me
                         shallow grave
                             I will not die
                             my soul
                           not a slave
                       little tree
             and brave
           roots barely cover
         with earth and with snow
          torrential flood rains
            an cold winds that blow
                as Little tree pains that
                         her roots they still grow
                            unending rootstocks
                           take ahold of our root
                      grow firmest oak trees
                   out beyond stars
               out past the seas
          down we be sleeping
               veins they be seeping
                   joy we be reaping
               our secrets lay keeping
             a love ever deepening
           a dowsed
              river vein
                 my roots not be waned
                  I bend
              stretch my limbs out,
            twisting and turning
               wood not for burning
                     far as earth goes
                       roots wrap around
                           all that is found
                        Dig a deep hole
                  back to the sky
                out to the sea
                    tears death does cry
                           dig a deep hole
                              cannot bury me
                        infinite stars
                past galaxies
           protect you from wind
             my trunk will not break
                     cover from sun
                    roads that we take
                 Dig a deep hole
              as far as above
            lay me inside
     find eternal love.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
I had a dream that this had to be fixed I fell asleep and woke up fixed it fell asleep woke up and fixed some more... I don't know if it's better I guess it was just necessary? Thank you everyone for appreciating the first time I don't know if it's better so please let me know your thoughts.... :) I really hope it isn't ruined.....
reflectively i
      opened &
i was
petals blushed
        in the
height of
summer & a
in the throes of
winter, except this
   the sky not
grey brought
a heat everyone
              could feel 
except me,
i waited
for an
          opening that
didn't come,
                  a flower
refusing to yield
to sun,
staying firmly
crossed, lost in a
place where
warm survives
for long.
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