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when the ghost of the dark cried for sunset
and the darkness arrived like a storm
the cliffs all angular and windswept
to wait long for the blossoms of dawn,

the dark all a seascape of blackness
a dance that soon opened every door
the clouds darkest grey, hardly
senseless,
the waves that blue anchored
the shore.

our love was a drifting of sorrow
like a tide only longing to flow
baptised while it waits for the morrow,
the moon’s tender orb all aglow,

when i kiss you beneath the
bright starlight
each star throws a fisherman’s
net,
and your flesh tastes like silvery
moonlight,
like the first night we met.

the late clouds gather their silver
the wind blows like the song of a ghost,
and my heart pounds like a
burgeoning river,
and all time in its fever is lost.

the storm’s edge blows open the
window,
the shutters pushed out from the sill
the clouds are a story of sorrow,
the evening all chill,

the night hangs her clothes in
her wardrobe
the sun sleeps like a cloudy
old bear
and all of my love like a snow
globe
white petaled, moon-scented and fair.

i dream of you like a silvery ocean
whose tide ever beats ever back
your love all a hypnotic potion
painted silver and black.
 Jun 2020 S Olson
Cné
Behind the gauzy veil of dreams in early morning mist
I'm held by the shadows 'neath the moon, a dark somnambulist.

I strive to awaken and arise, yet it eludes my demands.
Like faith that leaves beleaguered souls adrift in shifting sands.

What do the shadows want with me in realms of weary dreams?
My brain draws near but my body is paralyzed, it seems.

Am I a treasure of a sweet caress? Or my light like a lover's kiss?
Is loneliness their punishment or is it more than this?

I relax and try to rise. The dream will not subside.
Specters hold me down inside spreading panic in my mind.

And so I go adrift again. In faith I hold on and on.
I'll find my way back into zen with the breaking of the dawn.
Anyone ever experience sleep paralysis?
I search for the daffodils and only find the brambles       
I listen for the music and only hear the traffic
I reach for little prizes and get my fingers slapped
I memorize the words but they won’t let me sing them

I batter at these stone clad walls but I cannot break through them
The ladder that I built fell short when I ran out of lumber
I found the only way around them ended in forever
So with this teaspoon I must dig until I have a tunnel.
ljm
Another one I posted a week ago that never appeared anywhere.  Very frustrating to say the least.  Eliot???
 Jun 2020 S Olson
Caroline Shank
.
Candles light the way to my worn
torn books.  I read every night.  The
covers loosened from the binding.

It is a fragile thing that I have come
here to write you.  I am a little out of
shape.  The company of great
writers intimidate me. I am wrapped around the stylus of an idea.  

In some way think of this as an
entry into my thoughts.  Are you
interested in the nocturnal rambling
of my old, my favorite phrases?

Something in me likes to hear you,
in your deep voice, read to me what
I write.  My imagination startles me.

The candles are burnt enough.  
You will not return to this library
which you began so long ago.

I write to you in my diary,
Harker, words you fling from the
runaway carriage window.

I will never die and I will look
for you in my books forever.

I listen to the wind through
the pages.

Caroline Shank
The dimming of the lights provoked my sorrow,
rearranging every path to my tomorrow--
And with the wintry frost upon my face,
I melted slowly in the margins of disgrace.

Bereft and lonely still I wandered freely,
not believing there would be a source of healing--
My yesterdays divulged their open wounds,
and left my soul tormented through the gloom.

Once I lived with joyfulness and sheer delight,
the promise of sweet sunshine filled my nights--
But soon I ran toward heartless ways of being,
as if my world had crumbled without feeling.

Yet with the dawn's renewal on my mind,
I've pondered all the troubles of human kind--
No more an empty vessel needing sustenance,
my destiny appeared in quiet countenance.
 Jun 2020 S Olson
r
The smoke burns
 Jun 2020 S Olson
r
Remember when we burned
down the federal fences
and let a black family in
a white house built by slaves -

man, the fire was hot
and the smoke smelled like freedom -

but that was then, and here we are
not so much later, the rails are made
of iron like the fists of a dictator -

the smoke burns my eyes, man -
and now - I can’t breathe.
 Jun 2020 S Olson
Chris Saitta
Says the soldier to his love,
When he holds her handful of fantasy
That itself recalls holy wine and bread,
The blood seeps into his own hands is all.

Says the soldier to his love when he crawls
To impotence of mud and stone sediments
That augur not a fleshen but a fossil birth,
Like the bone of the once-masticating jaw.

Said the soldier to his love, when he fell face first
Into the nuptials of lily, delphinium, and dark earth,
I only wish to be the petals for your wedding, my love...
My mind plays tricks on me
As I revel in my fantasies of him

I analyze his every word
Scrutinize each enchanting smile

A fascination turned obsession
How do I make him need me?

I agonize and strategize
Trying to breach his impenetrable walls

But he will never want me
He will never know
The way I ache for him
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