To speak her name
is to let the syllables
fall from your mouth in a prayer
of perfect love and desire
to gaze into her eyes
is to fall into eternity
and see all that
is beautiful about heaven
and feel all the temptations
forbidden even in hell

to dream of her lips is a dream
that makes the gods tremble
and the devils heart ache
her skin is made of the lost pages
of soft lust written from the blood
within the heart of fairy tales

she is the magic of witchcraft
and the witchcraft of wonder
she lives under the sun
and above the night
she is the wish of every star
longing to be beautiful

in all of mans imagination
nothing could be as lovely or as sweet
as to have her name fall
from your mouth in every breath
and to have the prayer
of perfect love and desire
wrap around your very heartbeat

i. calypso

in my soul I seek the
calypso
who hides me
from myself
to keep me for herself
against all odds
I seek her
daily
and thus am
lost
to myself

ii. stupa

but this odyssey
now
has other rules
        to lose
        that self of unremitting
        joylessness
        who professes no love
        for me
        who compensates
        with fantasies
        of love unrequited
        who keeps me yearning
        for a ghost in a glass pain
        who keeps me blinded and cold-pressed
        by her charms

iii. belltower

in the rugged terrain
of the soul stands
a belltower
a beacon of measured
tones
sounding for Love
with Love
in Love
of Love

a hermes bell
commanding me back to myself


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

shirring down
rain slides whispering through the grasses
clings to every drying flower head gone to seed
bushes tightly bunched
against the stalking winter wind
buffalo herding round
circling the remains of autumn
summer lost to us all

leaves
racing for cover
freed from tree prisons
off on walkabout
seeking some adventure
bound for bonfires
or compost mountains
or gathering in communion against my garden wall
gossiping in their secret leafy language
secrets of the seasons
mysteries of the Earth
Mother tongue
wet is this silver morning
wet with life
C Patricia Sky Bellefleur

At dusk I hang up
a worn blue work
shirt that smells
strongly of love
of dirt of the earth
melancholy, sweat
yesterday's brews
the blues, regret
twenty cigarettes
black breath
of the bone moth
old blood, moon dust
spring pollen, summer
grass, Autumnal ****
winter's cold blast
sea salt and pine needles
mountain laurel, desert air
my dog's hair, I swear
I can't bear the thought
of washing or throwing away
all the stains, the growing pains
the laughter, the sorrows
these history lessons I need
to get me through tomorrow.

here is a cup of fog
mix it well
with melancholy
spoon in a bit
of saccharine ---
indigestible sentiment ---
and blend it all
together

take this tablespoon of
creative fire
douse it with
unrelenting tears
repress it into a ball
then let it stand,
covered,
that the yeast of
sorrow may bloom

when doubled,
punch it down to
bloom again

punch
bloom
punch
bloom

work the dough of Life
to death
form it into a blob
put it into the cold fire of the ego’s
oven
leave it there to burn away
to nothing edible

serve it in hard chunks
on delicate china
and --- wait
trust that the teaspoon of
Love added at the last minute
will be enough


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

taking things at a pace
allowing a flower to unfold

waiting for full bloom
to happen
in its own time

to not pre-empt
not to fizzle out

the wonders of a Universe
in the palm of your hand.