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Vera May 28
Totally peaceful beyond the hydrangeas,
Dusk is now swallowed by Earth’s mouth.
Spirit’s make their entrance, saying goodbye.
Birth of other souls, continuous.
There is strange luminous, breath in the wind.

We grasp at waves, catch the clouds passing by-
And we float, ethereal above its' parting lips.
Entrance returns, birth.

Opaque grieving, translucent during reprieve.
Tethered to this world, we think we can retrieve
its broken parts.
All our hearts out of control,
and our wounds in front.

Where dreams are chasing us.
Chasing before our lives can be more.
When does it end? When can we be anything
more than what has bent?

Beyond the hydrangeas, the moon is swollen and glowing,
soon-to-be mother to a whole new generation of lovers,
and hope is pregnant with the that thought that lessons can be learned,
and I am hopeful forgiveness can be earned.
Thinking about the world and sometimes feeling powerless that I can't make a change, but I believe we'll learn.
Vera May 24
I envisioned walking on water
outside my window, it twinkled
and sparkled- dancing by the aid of the sun.
The sun was something I could be
if I tried hard enough, I could kiss it
and feel holy.

But life cannot be enjoyed
when there is a screen keeping you
from the parting splash.
Of course, there is work to be done.

Sunlight is inside me,
and I am warm.
Though, it burns
I ache to exist purposefully.

The becoming of the reflection
whose face I’ve never taken the time to know.

It shows the repetition of a woman that I fear.
The shadow calls me, it lives here.

The white noise of my thoughts
ran out of ways to make suicide plausible.

Illness, like an imprint on the brain
where serotonin is slow to the nervous system.

I took the cocktail in the paper cup,
when my own maternal attitude
wiped away those tears.
I took the cocktail in the paper cup,
when poetry no longer screamed in my ears.
Vera May 16
Starvation of love isn’t so unheard of-
you’re the same scrawny boy. A child who
yearns for acknowledgement. That you are more
than just the mistakes our parent’s made.
You find a way to reach your way
back into the crevice of their hearts.
But you’re just a phase,
some children who grew up too fast-
leave behind.

I have also dug into my flesh,
to make sure the veins worked- that I am alive.
But you are no needle, you are a user.
*******.
Vera Apr 25
Hungry and begging,
Wanting to devour.
The humble skin protecting the collarbone,
Midriff exposed, taste of your lips inspires,
Sparks to ignite and burst.
Busting open my mouth,
Teeth falling out.
Intimacy is such a fear,
Unsure if love can exist in my *****,
or if it is an untouchable force.
Because my fire was stolen,
before it burned.
more sonnets.
Vera Apr 25
Grey wash of the sky, sleeping softly.
As I try to fall in love with the world in front of my eyes.
Drain plug of the Earth polluting bright hues,
That once lived;
There's a parasite underneath my skin, that floods me.
There's a marionette, bowing gracefully over my head,
In the cloudless space- it dawdles on empty intent,
My brain matter falls in puddle,
The acidic strain,
Reflecting a rainbow of thought
I can't obtain.
sad sonnet
  Mar 17 Vera
Anne Sexton
Who's she, that one in your arms?

She's the one I carried my bones to
and built a house that was just a cot
and built a life that was over an hour
and built a castle where no one lives
and built, in the end, a song
to go with the ceremony.

Why have you brought her here?
Why do you knock on my door
with your little stores and songs?

I had joined her the way a man joins
a woman and yet there was no place
for festivities or formalities
and these things matter to a woman
and, you see, we live in a cold climate
and are not permitted to kiss on the street
so I made up a song that wasn't true.
I made up a song called Marriage.

You come to me out of wedlock
and kick your foot on my stoop
and ask me to measure such things?

Never. Never. Not my real wife.
She's my real witch, my fork, my mare,
my mother of tears, my skirtful of hell,
the stamp of my sorrows, the stamp of my bruises
and also the children she might bear
and also a private place, a body of bones
that I would honestly buy, if I could buy,
that I would marry, if I could marry.

And should I torment you for that?
Each man has a small fate allotted to him
and yours is a passionate one.

But I am in torment. We have no place.
The cot we share is almost a prison
where I can't say buttercup, bobolink,
sugarduck, pumpkin, love ribbon, locket,
valentine, summergirl, funnygirl and all
those nonsense things one says in bed.
To say I have bedded with her is not enough.
I have not only bedded her down.
I have tied her down with a knot.

Then why do you stick your fists
into your pockets? Why do you shuffle
your feet like a schoolboy?

For years I have tied this knot in my dreams.
I have walked through a door in my dreams
and she was standing there in my mother's apron.
Once she crawled through a window that was shaped
like a keyhole and she was wearing my daughter's
pink corduroys and each time I tied these women
in a knot. Once a queen came. I tied her too.
But this is something I have actually tied
and now I have made her fast.
I sang her out. I caught her down.
I stamped her out with a song.
There was no other apartment for it.
There was no other chamber for it.
Only the knot. The bedded-down knot.
Thus I have laid my hands upon her
and have called her eyes and her mouth
as mine, as also her tongue.

Why do you ask me to make choices?
I am not a judge or a psychologist.
You own your bedded-down knot.

And yet I have real daytimes and nighttimes
with children and balconies and a good wife.
Thus I have tied these other knots,
yet I would rather not think of them
when I speak to you of her. Not now.
If she were a room to rent I would pay.
If she were a life to save I would save.
Maybe I am a man of many hearts.

A man of many hearts?
Why then do you tremble at my doorway?
A man of many hearts does not need me.

I'm caught deep in the dye of her.
I have allowed you to catch me red-handed,
catch me with my wild oats in a wild clock
for my mare, my dove and my own clean body.
People might say I have snakes in my boots
but I tell you that just once am I in the stirrups,
just once, this once, in the cup.
The love of the woman is in the song.
I called her the woman in red.
I called her the woman in pink
but she was ten colors
and ten women
I could hardly name her.

I know who she is.
You have named her enough.

Maybe I shouldn't have put it in words.
Frankly, I think I'm worse for this kissing,
drunk as a piper, kicking the traces
and determined to tie her up forever.
You see the song is the life,
the life I can't live.
God, even as he passes,
hand down monogamy like slang.
I wanted to write her into the law.
But, you know, there is no law for this.

Man of many hearts, you are a fool!
The clover has grown thorns this year
and robbed the cattle of their fruit
and the stones of the river
have ****** men's eyes dry,
season after season,
and every bed has been condemned,
not by morality or law,
but by time.
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