Serving birds
Got me walking on egg shells
If I don't skimp
Night class, I might last
I bike back - alone
To build this nest
To leave this place in the past
To see you smile
I'd wish away, the world -
Got a fortune
Zip locked in a locked locker
This is torture
Making love, I just watch her
Smile.

Wherever you
may be -
be it in strife
or
in gladness
            know I am
              flinging out    
                   my heart
             to the stars
hoping
      that, like a
              boomerang,
                    you will
catch it
bless it
infuse it
with all
you can
even if in
pieces
peeking through
the cracks
of your being
and hurl it
over the blanket
of celestial
               reasoning
                   tossing it
                like a wish
        into the heavens
until it reaches
my hands
safe, sound
and ever expansive
Know
          that while I
              send my prayer
                          to receive
                   that the real
                reason is to
         have suffused
within you
a breath
         of freshness
                   recharging
the parts of you
that have become
too heavy
to bear
     imbuing you
with the sacred
forces of
winter strength
spring light
the balance of
autumnal winds
and the ripe
heady fruit
of summer
Now
            as my hands
catch that pulsing
mass of life
       and put safely
                   back into
                          my chest
I bless the winds
the you
within me
and
         fly

What if
          I
                                                  ­Fall
In
              Love
With
      A
       Poet?
What if he mesmerises me
       With his lines?
What if
        His words touch me
        And kiss
           Through my skin?
     What if i search for
Him
Everyday
And
      Travel through
              His words
    And meet him
                  Somewhere
       And
We
       Become bare
          And he caresses
Me
          With every
      Stanza
And
       Here
           I am
                Again
Searching
           For him,
    Wanting
Him
        With
                 All
                      Desire
Waiting
             For
                 His
                   Next
                      Poem
                         To
                            Take
                             ­ Me
                          To
                       His
                   World
                Where
             We
          Will
        Lay
      Bare
   What if
               I
                  Fall in love
                      With
                  A
             ­         Poet?

© Evna-Luna

the tides are impossible these days
moving in and out of focus,
leaning and falling back from shore
clawing the ground as they're pulled.
they sift through the rocks
like a child looking for shells
or burying his feet
as deep as he can in the gravel's warmness
before the cold comes for his ankles.
the water moves faster than before--
now that the moon's in an ice chest
shedding dust and gravity
somewhere in a ship far from shore--
and the men who caught it
have hopelessly lost their way,
victims of an all-too-sudden high tide
and violent, rushing winds.

it turns out it didn't take much
to take the silvered old rock down.
moonlight is spun like a web
down in pillars to the ground and water,
sticking to sea spray and the clouds,
suspending in the air.
a couple of fishermen caught it
while filled half-and-half
with sleep and moonshine.
they said it wandered near the edge
of the cliff where night meets the day
and when they threw the net up
the moon's web got twisted, tangled in rope
and pulled it right down with them.

some light floats on.
broken strands of silk take to the air,
still attached to the ground and water,
though the connection's cut at the other end.
they're waving away today, in the sky,
like a luminous greeting:
hello, or goodbye.
people watching onshore say it's pretty
to see the moonlight like this--
they say it looks like a field of tall grass
pushed sideways and whirling,
carrying fireflies and ladybugs away
from the overgrown--
and they feel like the insects
buried deep in their own glowing forest,
talking to the sea and moonlight with waves.

Even through his blue
He painted starry night
His favorite chair
His favorite pipe
And a sealed up bag containing
Hashish
He could not smoke the pain away

A missing ear becomes a symbol
Only the madness of knowing
Ear lobe
His love
The way no one else does
*****
No numb could take the pain away

Van Gogh
Died poor
And alone
In a field that was
His last expression
He died by his own hand
It wasn't even raining

It should have been

Thick white clouds
Drown rolling mountains;
Gone before the first cold fingers
Can touch the wind-whipped water