Moving an enormous past, so many years of things, each once having had it own significance, now become a burden.
That lacquered box of coasters, gift from a dear friend, that hand-crafted elephant from a long-forgotten holiday. Books are the worst, still speaking in loud voices of hours of pleasure spent together.
Life cut into small pieces, boxed, stored, given away. Heartbreak is what remains in the tiny space allotted.
Abundance now resonates with regret, yet it’s all about letting go. Time transformed to some wonderful winged creature, recognizing no difference between before and after.
Katydid lover, your ******* form slips nightly into my bed, rubbing my limbs with a love song. A waterlily corolla my pillow, and you, the charm of a colibris, drinking from my *******. You lift my gown of gauzy film, my wings emerging from webbed sleeves, spider legs from mist-net stockings. Then, suddenly, we’re together, held in this sticky, perfumed cloud, hoping the rain will never wash us apart.
unless the Presence reflects the world’s delight, glad to surprise, to take revenge on winter in Sin’s disguise prepared with monster green and beauty to surprise Me, the crocus, when I choose to rise, and me, the lark, joined in every note by any word, describe a skyfull of neglected sheep and of that slimy, frogful pond. The season’s sound and fury will not wait to slap the perfect sting on Planet Earth.
Imagine a spherical shield, all sensual swirls of body art and gleaming currents of silent comings and goings.
Her path is radiant with skeins of silver slime. She’s discreetly **** inside her shell, snuggling in mystical moisture.
A willing captive, She’s self-sufficient, timid yet eager to explore, free to withdraw at any given moment.
Admire the courage of her smallness, the generosity of her gifts to the beauty of our skin, our gastronomic delight. She does not fear mortality’s ultimate crush. She lives and dies in the joy of giving her soft, sweet syrup back to the earth.
Chattering birds, not colourful But friendly in their own grey way. They make a lot of noise, Not really saying much But making a big effort To be understood. So willing to help But not to commit, Each proposal embraced By a disclaimer; they mean well, Of course, they do. Their motivation can’t be faulted, But there’s need for a psychic, a mind-reader, For everything’s insinuated, nothing discussed. So many points pronounced, declared, Underlined, exclamated but not communicated, Feeling no empathy, we all put on our coats Against the cold draft of confusion. .
Pale shadows of early spring – a sense of unfolding into fragile hours, not ours to keep. White winter days of danger past and still, that on-going uncertainty. A word in every drop of crystal breath, Caught and held a nano-second and hope running back to a beginning never found. A glossy serpent bites its tail in an endless game repeating itself. This circle, this oval orb Empty yet containing all.