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Your honeyed gaze

Melted diamonds

My mind's encased

Heart's in ribbons.


Your puckered lips

Like Emperor Tulips

As gentle and fine

As aged wine.


With every stroke

Of colors in yolk

Beauty beyond words

Is forever yours.
Our blood is golden wine,
I’ve been told to try sweeter blends.
My cups lay in my favorite number but the unknown in my shadow still stand.
Inside could be my salty songs for a memory that never ends.
I pull you down underwater to see just how far you can be from the sand.
Eyes wide open to the flame of your being;
It’s confidence and conflict that drag me out of my stalemate.
A torch to gaze upon something I know to be worth seeing.
Whether together or apart we still crawl the same trail to feel and be something great.
The oleander and roses course through our veins like the wax that holds together our armor.
We’re meant to grow our vines past the heavens.
That’s the place that holds serenity and storms that you never have to barter;
Where admiration never leads to lessons.
To be strong through our valleys when we feel like we’ll never climb back up.
In this garden is the place where I can accept your oceans dichotomy.
No matter how many wands, no matter how many cups;
I’ll accept it completely but of course cautiously.
All the eyes can see all the burning in my hands.
What could be sparked by nature feels easier to light on my own.
Is it gasoline I smell on demand
Or has the apple already grown?
5 of cups, 8 of wands, 7 of wands, the magician, the knight of swords. He lives in sunsets.
Admiration is the cousin of envy,
as I learned long ago in Austria.
I knew a girl from a village in the Tirol.
I don’t remember her face,
Except for the placid smile
on her berry red lips.
She was not beautiful, but pretty
in a Mägdlein sort of way,
"smelling of crushed daisies and sweat".
But her long, butter-yellow hair,
seemed to have fallen from the sun.
She wore a black, Dirndl vest
that hugged her torso, a white blouse,
and a long. striped, pink skirt.
Even her legs were beautiful,
With tiny, blonde hairs that glistened.
I wished I could be like her:
Simple-seeming, unaware, unquestioning.
I watched her stand on a rocky ledge,
On a little mound like a pedestal
That overlooked an green-blue alpine valley.
She was a poem or an imagined girl
From a fairy tale or an ad for Priumula.
She was  a goddess escaped
from the the netherworld
of dairy barns and milking cows.
I thought that she might never return
there from her lofty peak at the world..
But another girl stood beside her.
A spartan sort with round glasses
And a face like a Pug dog.
She seemed to stand guard,
In a sexless, violent way,
Threatening those who might approach.
I fantasized about pushing her off the cliff,
Just to rid us of her presence.
The altitude was spinning my thoughts,
Wondering what would happen
To this Hummel Fräulein someday.
Would she follow the other youth to Vienna,
Smoke and drink espresso in a café,
Or come back to her alpine home
And milk goats while her children played?
The next day, as if still drugged,
I strolled across the bridge to Germany
And the river path to Freilassing.
There I bought a new, blue blouse
With a heart shaped neck
And brown, corduroy slacks.
It was the best I could do then
And Dirndls were not cheap.
So I spent the summer
As an ersatz Austrian,
No longer an American with jeans.
My freedom was almost euphoric,
Including dodging classes
About Bertolt Brecht, Kurt Weill,
Die Dreigroschenoper,
Those overrated poseurs!
(Except for Mack the Knife.)
I even attended Mass at various cathedrals,
just to hear Mozart or Schubert dance
up in the arches with cherubs,
or in front of ancient, colored glass
in the gloom of medieval stone.
I accepted that The Tyrolean Girl
And her antique, sunlit style
Were as inaccessible as
Gentian and columbine, mist-shrouded
on high peaks wrapped in clouds.
I once ran to see some up close
And nearly passed out.
But knowing that, I felt their charm
Had descended from the heights
To entice us in the valleys,
With pink striped cloth, gold hair
And amethyst flowers.
They flee past us like time,
Swift as the rivers in Spring.
Lyndsey Mar 2
Sunset is my favorite color.
When the sun paints the sky
with its most vibrant hues
as if to illustrate the divinity
of its love for the moon.
And isn't it funny that
Sunset always makes me think of you.
Mrs Timetable Feb 14
I dreamt of you
In black and white
But
Your voice
Was in color
I do not know
What words you said
But I heard
Shades of adore
Ant Dec 2021
in so many ways i want to be like you,
so care free and admiring of all things.
but alas i’m merely a broken man
whose struggled to admire,
until i met you.

you’re beauty catches the eye,
it’s brighter than the sun,
yet i cannot help but stare.
i don’t fear going blind,
i fear not admiring such beauty.
Lalaouna Amina Oct 2020
The evidence:
a thickened chest & a dim grin,
which triumph over my strong insouciance.
After twenty two
plus hope,
though yet ungrasped,
the chasm between our scopes has not narrowed!
I glided past you, above the whim of time,
you did not notice.
'We merely coexisted almost met but always messed it,
spinning around like two sides of a coin.'
My resistance,
for once as a raised voice,
importunes the years...
I am inclined to remain unknown,
no nearer,
lest I upset fate.
It is better;
one thing to do that I have never done: send you a poem
(How Do I Love Thee?).
You are you;
I am I.
What is meant to be will always find its way.
Espy!
a long term confusion
.
.
.
2022
I validate my confusion:
this brat isn't meant to be
preston Oct 2021

I don't want to be   p u l l e d
in  to  your  world..

My hope is to  become  able
to lift you out of  your world
    until you find your  
                   true,  own..

  Instead of the one  you
  have  fallen  in to


https://youtu.be/0USk05JUBi4
stillhuman Sep 2021
I drink it all
like a thirsty creature
from the scarred hands
of my God
loving
nurturing
Tell me all your stories
I drink them all up
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