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i used to catch bees
in the palm of my hand
they never stung me
now i am an adult
i am afraid to try
  Mar 2016 lluvia de abril
She is an atlas
her eyes deepest
and darkest Africa

Unfolded I hold her
tracing the source
of her diamonds and gold

In search of the motherload.
lluvia de abril Mar 2016
You are standing there
in that five o’clock shadow
words escape me

Blame that look on your face
everything you’ve said and
those eyes, those eyes
that penetrate fiercely

I hear your steps
cross the room unhurriedly
rapture comes in your place
bare and impatient

I am motionless
wanting to devour
the space between bodies
to let tremble and crave
take over your gift and
consume your power

Blood rushes
your hands fall heavy
as the weight of your body
spoil me in your richness
and then be still for me
let me hold you
let me hold you for hours
in the strength of a gentle, but
intolerant straddle
lluvia de abril Mar 2016
A thought indecent
claims to know
the you that I miss most
the you I've not yet met
and long for

I miss your skin a day too soon
a kiss before its taste
and so I catch myself falling inertly
in thought consumed
veins first
waiting, waiting
waiting for time to bloom the day when untouched skin
and unkissed lips take form and shape of all indecent thought exposed
lived amidst the tender sounds of rustling sheets
in the warmth and taste
of strangers
On a day that I felt uncompromised, but yours before the thought existed and missing you was unacceptably premature.
lluvia de abril Mar 2016
I want to be
                 your happy poem
    to write myself
                             into your eyes
your lips, your shoulder blades
to fall into your soul
                         and leap from there
into that heart within your heart
not known to you just yet

I want to be
                    the verse that rings as true
        as the promise of your gaze
late in the day, an uncontemplated
a whispered phrase which keeps
and holds and stays with you
                throughout the day

I want to be the sound
                        and smell of fresh felled rain
to stir your thoughts as you awake
                        a storm
relentless, unafraid
                       to bring your laughter
and retreat into the wants
                                      within your veins
I just want to be honestly romantic. Did I fall close?
  Mar 2016 lluvia de abril
phil roberts
It's me again
It's the early hours and I'm slightly drunk
And it's me again

He has the sins of his mind
Which keep him warm inside
Amidst the weary and the wasted
Such warmth keeps him alive

I've always been restless
I hate to move yet I can't sit still
Hours are endless

There is a thrush inside his head
An agony of wings
Panic beaten thrashing
A cage of singing things

Still always anxious
Even though I've slowed right down
This edge is ageless

Laying low and watching
A million sub-plots hatching
Paranoid and paranormal
He scatters to survive

                                    By Phil Roberts
lluvia de abril Mar 2016
Rebellious and insolent
my thoughts return to seek for you
to find an empty fighting ground; there
long ago two hearts collapsed in love

And so I try again
as I take a final blow
and watch my soul’s remains
laying face up mid-sun
not knowing how to live
not knowing how to finish dying
holding a permanent stance
against letting you go
there is no final breath

I am without your many shields
exposed ever so fatally in the promise
to protect
and bleed in different shades of red
as I remember your left hand
gently covering my face
while the right swift and skilled
split my heart in two
beyond hope or repair

I am without complaint in all your strength
and in the bluest of your hues
There is no truth, if not, but in your eyes; oceans and skies now unattainable.
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