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somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
 Oct 2015 Marc Jackson
E
My hands were sweaty and my stomach practiced summersaults
I wished for my body to fall into a black hole of space and time;
until this was all just a memory. I longed to be flooded with relief
I don't remember how we said hello, or if she asked how I was
Her lips were ruby red.
She once told me Sunday's were for band t-shirts and your boyfriend's sweats
I used to provide the latter
Now I don't focus on who does
She spoke a lot, I smoked a lot
She hasn't grown up much between our years of separation
Did I expect her to? Do I really mind that she hasn't?
She's still the same, she'll always be mine
In a parallel universe I'm waking up next to her
Butterflies bursting from my stomach as she pulls a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt over her head.
As I said goodbye all I was thinking was 'who the **** listens to Jethro Tull anymore?'
9/8/2015
My very dear friends and wonderful, international tribe of poets:
When I first joined you all last August, I was in a time of deep solitude, culturing inner silence.
It became an ideal time to make real progress with my writing.

The part I had no idea about then, and that has become such a treasured part of my life, is the growth and blossoming of new friendships with many of you!
On June 2nd, 2016, just over a month ago, I felt to open back up to the world around me.
After all that immersion in transcendental bliss consciousness, life began presenting me with beautiful new opportunities, which has in turn lead to the most fantastic job I have yet performed, in which I am able to express and employ all of my particular set of talents and abilities.
Hence, then, my long absence, and my enormous, growing admiration for those of you who have families, jobs, and also contribute excellent poems here!
May the force be always with the poets, the writers, the thinkers, the artists... all the good and sincere well-wishers of our dear world family, and of our precious Mother Earth.
Blessings and light to us each and all,
Elisa Maria Argirò

(I have just re-written this poem that speaks to my present frame of mind, and thought to offer it again in this context. ~ EMA 2016)*

Eyes of Light

Momentarily, two eye-shaped
places in these thick grey clouds
stared directly at me, and there it was:

"Always be truthful.
Always be kind."

Just that.
A reminder.

Slipping down into the place
beyond all words,
feeling knowingness
seeping
into my bones,
residing in quiet bliss,
at home
in my own authenticity.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
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