Lydia Russell: Favorites

Dec 2014 Lydia Russell

Emily Dickinson

579

I had been hungry, all the Years—
My Noon had Come—to dine—
I trembling drew the Table near—
And touched the Curious Wine—

’Twas this on Tables I had seen—
When turning, hungry, Home
I looked in Windows, for the Wealth
I could not hope—for Mine—

I did not know the ample Bread—
’Twas so unlike the Crumb
The Birds and I, had often shared
In Nature’s—Dining Room—

The Plenty hurt me—’twas so new—
Myself felt ill—and odd—
As Berry—of a Mountain Bush—
Transplanted—to a Road—

Nor was I hungry—so I found
That Hunger—was a way
Of Persons outside Windows—
The Entering—takes away—

Dec 2014 Lydia Russell

We grow accustomed to the Dark

Dec 2014 Lydia Russell

Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark

419

We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—

A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—*****—

And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—

The Bravest—***** a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—

Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.

Dec 2014 Lydia Russell

adorned like the night

Dec 2014 Lydia Russell

mark john junor

adorned like the night

she lays out in the warm sun
scented with the romantic notions of moonlight
her illustrated eyes slowly wander me
like a sensual thought left to drift
like a sweet dream left to thrive
she lays out in the summer daylight
adorned like she is the treasure of night
echo of her deepest
echo of her darkest
like a soft promise of
like a sweet dream of
she lays out in the warm sun
her head alive with refined and delicate beauty
her lips have poised wet meanings silently implied
while her hand wanders its loose fingers along your roughness
seeking and finding the soft spot between bitterness and delight
and there she sees me
melts onto the cool crisp bedsheets
and into my waiting arms
nothing makes her desire the night more than
desire itself

— The End —