Ephemeral Apr 29

Floating, floating carried by the soft air
Dressed entirely in billowing white
Eyes closed, guard down, chin up without a care
There has not ever been such carefree flight

At least that is what I try to believe
If you pretend you're free then you can be
Ignore the aching feeling, let it leave
Nothing hurts you when you fly blissfully

Until your husband comes to shut the door
Stops the wind from carrying you away
From him, trapped without love, just like before
Will you again be able to be gay?

Floating way back down, trapped by my husband
I was loved once, never to be again

Based on Chapter One of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Ron Sparks Jul 2015

Bloodied fingers are badges of honor
that few men suffer themselves to accept.
Part of the debt the instrument incurs;
a separation of skilled and inept.

The mastery of half a dozen steel
strings oft becomes a lifetime endeavor.
This daring quest for musical ideals
demands commitment lasting forever.

A hollow body touches the essence
of perfection that is merely expressed
by mortal beings of inconsequence
who caress the Muse nevertheless.

Ten fingers endure torture on six strings
for melodies only guitars can bring.

Ron Sparks Jul 2015

Green as the pirate seas Caribbean,
her eyes pulsate with the thundering surf.
Majestic squall, power most stygian,
lurks just beneath the surface of her mirth.

The salt-filled breeze, a warm westward phantom,
imparts its lazy life to flaming locks;
brushes the kisses that from angels come,
caresses lips, a smile that faintly mocks.

Tropical dress clings to a body lithe,
swaying gently on the sand-covered dune
gazing at the sea, a creature of myth
spoken of in countless stories and rune.

Enchanted, I am drawn to my Siren.
She sings for me alone - the least of men.

Ron Sparks Jul 2015

My arms held high, I glorify the night
which masks the horror of the world from me;
all the death, the sorrow and the spite.
I cannot fear that which I cannot see.

The night cries only to those who listen.
Deafened, I reach out and embrace the dark,
offering my soul in full submission.
And yet, the night cries dimly reach their mark.

The sweet comfort of night peels away
leaving ugly darkness and empty skies.
The keening leaves me in a disarray.
Frightened, I listen as the night cries.

The night cries torment me as there I stay;
I long only for the coming of day.

Cait Archer Aug 2014

and no one ever told you that your smile
was a weapon, so you flashed it around
and, blameless, cut my wrist. and so beguiled
by a mouth that said so much without a sound,
I followed you, the wound pressed to my lips,
a bloody gift, this pulse that tastes of you.
I knew a novice swordsman’s blade could slip
and begged you hurt me breathless, hurt me new.
but you just laid me gently on the beach
and flooded all my wounds with ocean salt
and pulled my reckless mouth within your reach.
the seabed, like my heart, is lined in faults
and you are seismic, make me quake inside
and open all my body to the tide.

written june 24, 2014
Cait Archer Aug 2014

My heart was once a castle, stern and guarded,
a feudal lady looking to expand
without retreating, ‘til the earth was charted
as her own: instead of love, claim fertile lands.
As I encountered each disdainful lord,
I gave my word I would not be defeated,
and I wasn’t. When I threw down my sword
it wasn’t as a coward, all conceded,
but reaching for the king of all the sky,
our worlds becoming infinite when joined.
By fields and stars, I pledge to live and die
in honesty, in jollity and joy,
and all shared things that we are regents of,
together, in the kingdom of our love.

written may 4, 2012
part 2 of 3, series: 'saturn: the sickle and the boy'
Sebastian May 2014

She didn’t always drink her coffee black.
The milk would spill in, staining the drink
until the perfect hue was achieved
and she’d think what her mother used to think.
“You are always right where you need to be.”
And she’d watch a sugar cube float around
for a few minutes, until the bronze sea
took it away. And her silk dressing gown
trickled past her body just as her new
buyer came to the door. She took one sip
and tried not to let her mascara strew
or even let the mug smear at her lips.
She poured everything down the kitchen sink
and tried to forget what her mother might think.

It's not a perfect Shakespearian sonnet, but I like where it ended up.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
©Sebastian @http://hellopoetry.com/sebastian/

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