Feast Of Summer Moons
A Poem by Eve aka Corset


Tonight and all over the earth,
there is merriment.
Cocky birds will dance
at  maske and vest.,
and many times at best
I have dreamt of this
in sadness
still to awake with laughter
within my breast.
and yet
beyond these lids
and lashes,
the world is
still our oyster,
whether it be hailed
by sighing violins
or paired by
charmed footsteps.

Madame Butterfly;
my cupid kills in arrows
and so grieves her;
her Puccini,
should love speak
beyond a reasonable
torment of expectation.

Let her feast then
beneath the moons
soft with light and
with souls as bright
as sunlight, brilliant
upon the water
bound not
by counterfeits of passion,
having railed
so long at love,
that it does seem to
have become a habit.

Whisper again
to a ****** night,
that dreams with
eyes wide open,
sailing to a song within.

Love is ancient and ageless and
hearts will remain young
forever,
for which men and women
will hunger,
because,
amour sweet amour
is a  feast
and fit
for summer moons.

.

Looking on
this expanse that encircles me,
closing in during open hours,
unlocking doors I can’t seem to walk through
Stairways of rotted, termite eaten steps
each with my name painted on them,
creaking underfoot,
losing to the weight of
long lines at self serve counters
wrapping around as if
nothing is free but here
for some reason it is

And I stand right in the middle
alone in this ocean of faces,
polo shirts and penny loafers
staring at cell phone screens,
calling someone,
talking with their hands,
hands free?
Paying it forward,
coffee for the next guy in line,
but not me

For I am just here, anywhere,
somewhere like this,
a thing plopped down,
fallen from the sky,
splattering on the earth,
consumed by the soil,
muddied footprints and all
trudging through the wilderness,
carving a path of existence
breaking branches and
scattering bread crumbs

Still I am me,
standing tall among the taller,
enjoying the shade,
sipping lemonade and eating apple dumplings,
pushing, not pulling forward,
dreaming, (of course)
regardless of tire tracks and scars
or pointed fingers,
Pounding the pavement,
laying a foundation,
driven beyond

Parking lot base,
asphalt themed destinations,
a checkerboard of last rites and dead batteries,
yellow lines on the horizon,
handicapped up front
Looking out over the valley,
watching the world go by,
admiring the beauty,
loving life,
rejoicing in the fact
that it is all so immensely
vast . . .

as am I

Smart alecky tourists
All crack the same tired jokes
A thousand times a day.

And we are no saints.
Sometimes when the heat
Is elevated
And the humidity
Takes your breath
We forget to laugh.

One ******* on sunday
Asked If there would be
An indian attack
And I just looked at him.

Too stupid to give up
He asked if I would attack
Because I look like an Indian.

I smiled
As if to say bless your heart
And told him honestly
"Not usually on Sunday."

Knife and tomahawk
Are never far away
Though

.

Drifting on a lonely stream
where lily pads and ripples direct my thoughts
to the promises of a new day

               I dream I am floating in your arms

as currents gently tug
playing solitaire in wishing hands
among glistening diamonds surfaces

               Searching for each desire’s shoreline

while my eyes wander to a place
long of sunrise sparkles
on soft summer murmurs

               Finding your fragrance on a cool wind’s whisper

my heart is drenched,
cleansed in an endless channel
of what your beauty brings to me

               A shady spot among watercolor shadows

writing poetry,
penning my affections in ink traced lines,
renderings of how wonderful my life is

               Since you have washed over me

leaving me breathless,
submerged far beneath drizzled kisses,
saturated in your love