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 Apr 2013 Amber S
JM
C
 Apr 2013 Amber S
JM
C
My cherry blossoms.
Gather slowly, my precious,
the day is long, here.
No matter which notes are played on still waters
they weigh heavy on my pain
when they fall.  
There are days when I realize
I am spinning 'round
and murmuring,
feeling forced and raw.

It seems that time dwindles down
into its own sea
then wakes the night
asking to be filled with hours.
Everything I do
seems to make time kiss the places
where I spin,
stroking........
as it devours.

I can feel a searing look
from eyes on the sidelines
when I attempt to  hold the jewels of darkness
next to me.  
Their footsteps
are like the million curses of tears,
stinging..........endlessly.

Before the door closes on my life's journey
I know the moon will rise
in all its angelic innocence
once again.
Until then, I will dream
of polishing those jewels,
spinning round
here......
insane.
Copyright @2013 - Neva Flores - Changefulstorm
 Apr 2013 Amber S
Kathleen
For the record, I suppose it should be stated I lost my soul in Vegas.
I would love to go back there and find it among those glittering lights and buffet tables of never-ending artful desserts.
It's funny that all I really remember are those pretty desserts and fried mashed potatoes.
I want those things back.

I'm like a raver with those lights.
I want to consume them.
I want to glow in my pores.
Not the cliched glow that wraps itself around the impregnated many,
but the glow that comes from sitting next to neon for too long.
That it could somehow stain you.
Rub off like fairy dust on skin.
That I could fly away due to its energy or wishful thinking.

Take me back to Vegas,
where they still hand that out for free by the boatload.
I need not gamble.
I need not glad-hand.
I would simply sit idly by the buzzing of pinks and blues and greens and reds.
And me and those cheap 1920's lights will have a moment,
a moment I can share with the cocktail waitress who asks me for the third time if I'm sure I don't need a little refresher drink.
 Apr 2013 Amber S
Samuel
I believe that
           no one really means it when they
         say it's time to go
 Apr 2013 Amber S
JM
Screw Guilt
 Apr 2013 Amber S
JM
You can get it right, at 4 a.m.,
if you listen to the birds waking up.

My heavy lungs remember your amber
as my neck revolts in agony.

I hurt so bad right now and all
I want to do is taste your wet.

You can get it right, at 4 a.m.,
if you listen to the birds.
 Apr 2013 Amber S
JM
Your pale skin wrapped
only in a black corset
and ebony hair,
the welts begin their ascension
towards grace.

No need to burn when
I am around for I bring
enough pain to satisfy
all of our dark desires.

That time is dying and
I have new rituals for your
milky curves.

Tonight you crawl through me
as I bind your ankles
to your wrists,
my thoughts to
your blood.

Submission, like honey.
Slow and ageless,
forever ready for my tongue.

Tasting bliss centuries old
and loosening the knots
inside, we lick our wounds clean.

Time and distance
don't exist in our cathedral.
Presumptuous to speak the obvious?
If only what we see is not as such.
Then all presumptions truly weigh not much.
Investigations make demands of us.

With every word the world is on to us.
Their weight of stares requires of us a crutch,
analysis of meanings and of such,
until of reasonings they empty us.

No man lies naked splayed before strange eyes.
He wears the clothing made in current style,
to give illusion pleasing to the world.

And so the world peels back the layered lies,
and lays them in a neatly gentle pile,
until the truth of man is full unfurled.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos
Italian (Petrarchan) Sonnet
 Apr 2013 Amber S
JM
Dearest
 Apr 2013 Amber S
JM
Night blooms cold as I bathe in memories of us.
Our shadows writhe behind my eyes;
your amber seeps into my pores
like water into an ancient root.

Luna smiles coldly as I wade deep in solitude's ink.
The great nothing consumes exponentially.
I am here and you are there and I have not felt
your breath in far too long.
Like cotton puffs of white the clouds float by on cyan skies,
the lamb fur hassock of the angels praying in the skies.

Their occupancy hidden but for subtle clues for eyes,
a shadow in the cloud reveals an angel in the skies.

Their bows are permanent, their heads fall once but do not rise,
the stillness of the clouds betray the angels in the skies.

Their motionless prostration is their very best disguise,
creating doubt upon the earth of angels in the skies.

What of the consciousness of those in tombs we all surmise
have fled to scenes beyond the eyes among the clouds of skies?

Where are the shadows of their seats?  Despite our many tries,
we see none in their names we find cloud-written in the skies.

I call to those who've left too soon, their names among my cries.
Their answers whisper in the hiss of rain from cloudy skies.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos
Ghazal
 Apr 2013 Amber S
Samuel
Pellow
 Apr 2013 Amber S
Samuel
Somewhere in the middle of a ceaseless rain's drum
That led to your forehead smoothed under my thumb
And shivering stopped by a single warm hug
I felt (for an instant) the depth of our love
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