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Lora Lee Nov 2017
on this rumbling
              stretch of tundra
                  no trees reach up
                     to soothe the sky
                     there is a pulling down
                  of wind tunnel vortex
               like conifers in reverse
          an icy howl
in the bonechill
               of time
Translucent holes,
         perfectly round, are dug
                in glacial archeology
                  and in the sea below
               gelid creatures lurk,
           half-frozen
         in the history of my
                                        soul
Only moss and lichens
grow on the rock,
somehow softening the
rugged textures
of the wild landscapes
that seethe
          just beneath my skin
and there, just
shy of the surface
is a quickening
a subtle pulse of veins
that pumps life
between the gales of
my heart's steppes
flushing out
           the pain
somewhere
deep
      within the private lotus
of my being
folioles unfurl
leafy shapes around
my organs
wrapping them like gifts
          as they undulate in whorls
opening my petals
in renewed consciousness
and deliberation
as a new kind of  
           stamen
                rises
    dusty pollen
powdery
budding ripeness
       bursting up
       and out
   of my deepest
       centered
whirlpool pistil
nectar dripping
in viscous webs,
to be caught upon
the tongue of
a new dawning
My silky outer
wings of vegetation,
slender stalks of
          filaments and anther
have been turned
into hot steel
They protect
    the tender vulnerable
                   when burned
as poison words held up to my
watchful eyes,
                   are properly discerned
I give myself over
to this new power,
my back arched to fully embrace
what is to come,
a universe calling thunder,
the old patterns undone
I am ready
to reveal my all
as the goddess deep within
comes to release my gold
suffusing light through skin
conjured from me
a relentless strength,
ever-growing,
                now tenfold
rising way past
soft-lit stratospheres
and orbiting
               to
                 bold
So worth listening to!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOsFQ-VUeMw

foliole-a small leaf-shaped ***** or a part resembling a leaf

filament-the anther-bearing stalk of a stamen

anther-the part of a stamen that produces and contains pollen and is usually borne on a stalk
  Nov 2017 Lora Lee
zebra
i'm choosing different parts of me
i suffer from an excess of reality
a war between ideal and real
id's demons unloosed
trampling super ego
but not without Gods retribution

a self divided by fragments
of loving and loathing
*** and mouth
and the speed of things
accelerating cause and effect

memory
an anorexic history
that feeds on ephemeral visions, metaphors, signs and symbols
and wares it self out counting time
days worked
money made and paid

a ****** possessed
of a fictional self in a run on dream
of passed and future
absent of a present
  Oct 2017 Lora Lee
L B
I suppose there has to be a reason
or at least a note
to mark that day--

He ate his breakfast
She let him out
He walked along the railing like the plank
defying death for pleasure
of his lady's company
to get his belly rubbed
sprawled long
across her lap

She released him
to chase the squirrels of his dreams
to his black cat adventures
to the aching green of life's
late summer ways

But, the days assemble against your return

May the angels find you quickly
my darling, Bailey
Dark beauty of coal
I was a Tuesday, bereft
You disappeared--
like the shadow of a whisper

Disappeared like hope--
in the last blow of day
Black cats, so often feared by the superstitious, are the last to be adopted at shelters and often singled out for cruel treatment by the heartless.

Bailey was on "Death's Row" after being seven months in the pound. Even his status as "The Pet of the Week" could not get someone to want him.  I saw his little vid with the TV reporter --and he belonged to me.

My first impression of him:  
"Gawd! what a tall cat!"
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