Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Memories
of what I never had
lurk in the back rooms
of my mind
silver-tinged
with coolness,
their icy edges
     melting into tiny
colored fires
intensity of emotion
that becomes an endless,
                 lurching ocean  
                        with the ache
                       for the close,
                     rolling folds
of deep saline whispers
a merging of souls
without drowning
            a submerging
without getting
carried out
to raging sea
identity rescued
from certain
little death
          maintaining clarity
allowing for
the lasting wonder
of seeing through
each other's
eyes, hearts in
tune beating
                   strong
always keeping me
on the edge of
the most sumptuous,
delicious repast
that even in
the most heated
moments
will not burn us
to a mere crisp,
not destroy
yet also will not just fill
in limited surfaces
a cup half full,
a mind, half alive
Instead of shallow,
quickened afterglow
     I simply know
    what I  must have:
that deep, s lo w  d i v e
to the depths
of that aquatic
rhythmic wonder
the soft, liquid crystal
                       of reflection
that is in my core
and now,
as I send
        prayers to
           the winds
        of hope,
  yes, how
I bleed,
             for
               this heart
              needs
           so much
        more
It must be added to the title: "...but of what will one day be" because I believe it will come into being. No ifs, ands or buts. Period.
Not only that: It is clear that we need different things at different stages. It is not that "love" is never found in some form. But: Sometimes, as we get wiser, we know,crystal clear, exactly what it is that we need. :)

Worth a listen:
What Else Is There?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADBKdSCbmiM
We were there when fire was harnessed
and hunted with spear and arrow
ate cooked Wooly Mammoth
finger painted cave walls.
But we were only part formed
a half remembered daydream
deep in the future of a man and a woman
as they watched their children dance around the fire.
In ancient meadow yonder
She frolics with butterflies
Wearing a halo of wildflowers
*~Marian~
Written: August 25, 2016.
Dedicated to my three favorite poets:
My mom, Hilda, and my Dad, Timothy,
And also to my dear friend, Lena S!!! :) ~~~~~<3
After a long hiatus, I have returned!!!
Hopefully I can write more poetry soon!! :)
tongue pass
over each aggregate curve
wend crest push

skinmeetsbone
ran up the middle
from skull
to small
of back

orange
red
brilliance
thresholds bold slip

in

grip ten thousand tendrils
her white scalp
made known

force dealt until stilled wilt sacharrine slung
( Sonnet )*

When senses run together, dull in the rack  
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox  
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’

The ****** end, embodies the souls' watery  
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’

Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,

All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.  
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.'
Aisling: Irish gaelic word for 'dream-vision.'
.
Next page