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Maya 16h
For Stephen

The wind teases the curls in my hair
Sultry breezes soak my silk shirt, causing  
the cloth to cling to my chest. As I grip  
my skirt, we slip into the plum blackness  
of the night sky. Your breath cools my neck as  
we watch moths disappear into the dark.  
The smoked ash of Georgia fogs coats us-  
scattering the lights of streetlamps. The entire
world is void and you and I are the only ones
in it. Your palm in my palm. Your eyes watch
my eyes as they drift over our silhouettes.
Our shadows dance on the pavements. We laugh-
thinking of ourselves catching moths in our hands.
Feeling their bodies pulsate in our grasp.
Matthew, Matthew, icy blond,
Dressed exactingly.
Lip curled down, distinctly bored,
Texting rapidly.

Matthew, Matthew, eloquent
Elegant, aristocratic
Malignant and malevolent,
Infectious, symptomatic.

Matthew, Matthew, I'll dispatch you
From my heart and hopes again.
Mismatched but I can’t detach you
Triple-bonded nitrogen.

Ever after? No way, never,
But Matthew, oh! What I remember.
Backbone of a sonnet, soul of a limerick?
It’s taking too long to drink my coffee.
It greeted me with a piping hot smile
That relaxed me, now it’s lukewarm to me.
To bring back steam, I’ll nuke it for a while.

My eyes were too big for my morning roast.
It calmed so soon, I drank it too slow.
“A venti, please!” I told Starbucks to boast,
It grew cold as I got into my flow.

I’m certain this is what Starbucks intends,
A fine metaphor if ever there were.
All this caffeine on which life so depends,
An excess we all self-administer.

Tomorrow another twenty ounce cup,
Burnt mouth to more quickly go bottom’s up!
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at www.insightshurt.com
Buy "Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life" at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
Maya 2d
For Joshua

Moaned in your sleep, are names whispered like omens
The narrative of a nomadic lover
Tallies taken in dusky dens or motel suites
Scores of sordid affairs sketched into cotton sheets
The baleful lament of my dear Lisander

Sorted, are the tokens of your travels
this one's eyes; that one's dewy lips
The bristling hairs of my skin -anxious-
arranged as souvenirs upon a shelf

Should there be any rest after rapture,
or is there only your murmured hymn?
The rising total upon a roster
of spotless lambs you've led to slaughter,
The untold casualties of your sin
Maya 2d
Granny grinned, though her hands ached from shelling
peas were the only constant in this house.
Little me watched her crooked fingers snap
each pod in two as she sat on her porch,
built by her husband in the back of  
their double-wide was as good as any home
to me. Cornbread cooked on the stove while
Pop Pop napped on the couch with a beer
resting in one hand and the Bible
resting in the other. He'd tap his foot
to the overheard humming of hymns, as
Granny sang “Pass me not oh gentle Savior”.
Her smile, masking a pain ancient as Proverbs,
whispering to me ​-​Hidden, is a Holy thing-

I arose slowly like the morning sun,
Consciousness begun as a bit of light,
To a place where the day and I are one,
Leaving behind the discontent of night.

The sun must have so much love for the dawn,
For the kisses given its sun-kissed rays,
Relieved the false light of the moon is gone,
Dream kisses pale in light of those by days.

The sun each morn smiles as its loves renew,
Warming dreams gone cold under moonlit air,
To dream of soulmates under midnight blue,
A poor substitute for you being there.

The best of dreams are gone without a trace,
When in the morn I wake to see your face.
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at www.insightshurt.com
Buy "Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life" at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
Breon 4d
The night winds down to embers, left to die
All smoldering and seething, coiled apart
Like rattlesnakes engaging eye to eye
Instead of lovers sharing heart to heart.
This could have been avoided, some would say,
If they were different, were these different times.
Some better, more auspicious holiday,
Perhaps, but winter offers bitter climes.
Now elsewhere, things are better. Elsewhen, too.
The curtain falls across an empty stage,
Our actors long departed, longing too -
What's longing, as you're flying from the cage?
Together and together, free as birds,
Beyond the humdrum cares of poets' words.
Happy Valentine's Day, some of you. Happy day after, the rest.
...cuz I won't tell you IF you ask directly, my mind goes blank.  You hafta come at it sideways.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIX)


Quoth I, "while golden hours--" to find in pale
Excuse what?! Milton's sonnet answring thence:
"...lead on propitious May--" as blue skies hencxe
Yield not sae much kind warmth as on that scale
Urge 'non the soul to think of April's trail
Of violets through the budding woods leaves fence
With softest whispers, wherefore do I sense
Lo, summer ere that Febry's old, t'avail?
Yea further, why does my heart tremble fer
Favon'ous' merry hours' return as blue
Skies set that thought on fire as if it were
But weeks away?  I struggle now as't woo,
'Gain yearning to stroll through the pines in tour
And listen to their voices like t'would do.

09Feb19a
*L3--see Milton's Sonnet to the Nightingale: "....while JOLLY hours lead on--"
What my men lament, I suppose.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIV)


Lo, how mists shroud the world til aught fr'intents
Quite disappears!  The clustered houses tale
Lost to that fragile whiteness, firs detail
The edge of haunting yonder likeas thence
I knew high in the Rocky Mountains, whence
My soul takes off on that note, like the veil
Hides steeper ledges and ravines, this pale
Eye of thin warmth with puddles in suspense.
An essay on erm, Samuel Johnson fer
Is't thus another angle on just who?
I thought our lit'rature taught us in tour
His name at least.  Perhaps I'm wrong.  He knew
So much tis reckoned better he as twere
Was NOT a lawyer, brilliant.  Is't fog's cue?

06Feb19b
Ya, the "Incurable Dreamer."  I think they call it "woman."
...cuz a nagging bladder isn't cool.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLXXX)


From Rimsky-Korskov's strains wi' half a sense
Of "magic" in Sheher'zade's fervid tale,
To Kenny Chesney's singing in betrayl
Was it of being kind to some soul fr'intents?
To class'cal notes which yield me lo, from thence
Fair visions of huge columned courts' detail,
To ah, the Scriptures--Romans to avail
Sense past all foolish thoughts and vain pretense.
So drift off on that, eh?  No.  Yes, tis poor,
But THIS wee stanza tugged at me, or to
Effect the first lines rolled across in tour
My silent tongue, til sleep feigned it would do.
Yet earbuds in, hard rock came blasting fer
Good taste in and, I'd rather sleep anew.

31Jan19a
*cough,cough*  Ahem.  Stop giving me THAT look.
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