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 Mar 2014 Fiona Crouch
TinaMarie
I want to go on a journey.
     A splendid adventure.
In search of lost love
     That could have been
          But never was.

I want to wander every inch of you.
     Writing love letters across your back and chest
          With my tongue.
     Tagging your neck, arms and thighs
          With lingering kisses.

I want to travel to southern regions.
     Exploring new pathways to heaven.
Unraveling the concepts of time.
     Bringing past to present; present to future
          Making you mine.

I want to board a shuttle with you.
     Launching us beyond this world.
Suspended among the moon and stars
     Bringing the entire universe to halt
          At the very moment  
               you yell out
                    my name.

©Tina Thompson
Soon after birth
It asks

What worth?

All the thoughts
The words to shape me
Are they necessary?

What reward?

Can’t hold onto this moment
The delusion you paint
Goaded by a mad chase
To lift the haze
Fill up the dearth
Give all wildness a berth
And then
Just when
Relieve the pain
Start all over again

What gain?

Brick upon brick
Rhyming rhythmic
Verbose prose
Random rambling
Under the sky anything

What sense?

Knows one who writes

**For one audience.
From the knoll rolled the meadow blue brown and green
The silence of the Spring sky shielded the distant din
Winds blew in a dusty peace bought mind a soft solace
First star on the meridian chimed in the evening’s grace.

Atop the knoll came the call for once to break the race
Hear the hushed whispers of dreams long suppressed
Stand there hugged by those moments’ forgetfulness
No need survives for going back there exist no address.

The chance in that trance wove a blithesome spell
It’s here that you belong for you is made this dale
Drink in this heavenly whim hidden nectar of the mind
Unshackle from the chains of an illusion left behind.

The sky was soon illumined by the monstrous city light
Faded the meridian’s first star stillborn was mournful night
Atop the knoll dawned darkness the meadow was a distant blur
It was time to retrace downhill to forever nurse a scar.
My mother always told me
That a man should be well read
At least I listened well
And did as she said
Now I'm Slightly
Worn around the edges
Pages slightly bent
Text a little faded
But the words still relevant
I know I show some dog ears
Straightened here and there
But as my mother told me
I have become well read
I am too angry to write
My words will burn through the paper
Tear it to shreds
Smoldering anger
Burst into flame
Will destroy
Whatever I write
I am so angry that it feels like
Bleeding
Pouring out from deep within
 Mar 2014 Fiona Crouch
martin
I passed a milestone on the way
Exactly when, I cannot say
Maybe where the grass grew long,
Or when the wind blew extra strong
I passed it though, of that I'm sure
That one's gone, but there will be more

many
many  more
--------------------------------------------------------------
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




a little straight slip of a thing,
red, a quartier inch wide,
red, a quartier inch thin,
suggestive, inquisitive,
a political and philosophical,
lovely provocation to conjecture

as if it were a colored arrow,
pointing strangely down,
instead of up,
to the next handhold
on a rock climbing wall,
in this case,
handholds on a
woman's body

this way,
follow me,
to the barricades!
a tourist mapped-path to follow,
visit the glories of the republic,^
and the charming Quartier Latin!

entrap and entice,
the eyes willful blinded,
taken away to thoughtful solitary,
on-one-side-only,
does the
bra strap
conveniently,
consciously,
haphazardly,
(yes, that's it,
a hazard,)
invitingly, speaks to,
looks to me,
inquiring will you vote,
RSVP to red?

as if a line of lipstick on the body drawn,
the directive points,
this way, perhaps,
always, just perhaps,
this way tourist,
to the dome of the pantheon,
where the statutes
are the course,
or perhaps
disguised, well-placed, statuesque, (ha!),
improvised explosive devices,
purposely presented,
needy for a desired
psychological high impact detonation

If
that is its purpose
under heaven,
under sweater,
under halter,
under cutoff gym top,
under liberty,
to tempt and remove
the blindfold from the womanly scales of
under justice
to tilt him favorably one way

If
it, is theater,
I, the audience

then whatever is on stage,
(Ibsen's Doll House, ironie délicieuse)
is a failed distraction, naught to naughty,
to no avail,
his eyes fastened, stapled wide
to the quarter inch thin
red path
from her slender shoulder,
leading, stepping him ****** down to
his I-magination,
for which unknowingly,
he, ticket purchased,
months ago for
two hours and one intermission

He must go again,
the show was
superbly acted,
for so the reviews said,
Ibsen's play,
"an unremitting portrayal of the suffering of a women"





^republic ~ a state in which the power rests in the body,
of those entitled to vote, exercised by their representatives, their eyes, chosen directly by and for them.
A synthesis, a hybrid of recent actual adventures and thoughts in, on and about Ibsen's Doll House, rock climbing, Paris, and the exposed solitary bra strap, not in that order.
Seven trees* she cried
Clutching each other
Seven trees all heading for the sky!


Past the distance I saw her smile
As the drizzle passed us by!

Not all them can grow as tall
Though each would love to go high
But the seven trees tied in one dream
Would one day soar to the sky!

One bore alluring fruits
Another stuck out thorns
One grew maze of entwined roots
Another was bitter born!

One grew without even one care
Yet shades men in all weather
One was dark bark another fair
But all happy to be just there!


I took her hand in mine
Her eyes turned after rain shy
Then drunk in the smell of earthen wine
We took one flight to the sky!
Between my awes at the centuries old sculptures
She was lost from my sight.

Maybe a minute only I thought
But why she should roam alone?
Against my wish I fought
To call her on the cellphone.

Should I go to track her out
Peeping through windows’ iron bars
But spoke in me a voice of doubt
Unnecessary she couldn’t be gone far.

108 dark holy spires
She could be under any of them
Caught in the winter’s desire
For a round of hide-n-seek game.

Sometimes a minute could be eerily long
For the shadows of fear to haunt you
What if the wait’s end never comes along
And she forever remains out of view.

Didn’t know when she quietly stood behind
Her nudge gave me a start

*I know what now occupies your mind
Those displays of the ****** art!
You needn’t so elaborately state
You don’t want to complicate.
10w paradox
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