behind her bangs
she saw
in the field where she sat
was dusted
with violets and bright, ruby poppies
the sky was painted with gold and violet
hues of blue and pink.
behind the darkness of her eyes
she thought.
she opened them,
and saw that
ink had bled into the sky
deep purples
blacks and blues.

Dew drops
Whispering to starlight
Secrets
Never told
A  small girl
With hair like fire
By a lake
With water like the night sky
Emerald frogs
Ruby roses
Crystal violets
And a pearl moon
All of this
Could be hers
But she just wants
To make friends with the fireflies

I’d love you violently if I had you
I’d watch your violets turn to dust and seem like new
(Until I had you)
The ones you left behind with your ever-seizing dialogue
This is a mere apocalyptic log in which
I tear apart those moments before turning crazy
I went crazy for
you,
your dead violets
and like petals—strewn, your
disconcertingly
violent mind.

Poet’s pens write to take flight
Like paintings of the open blue sky
And the moon lightly lit at midnight
Growing as trees from Japanese Bonsai

Visions of green briery vines,
Red roses and blue violets,
Written in measured and timed lines
that glide by, like descending pilots

Readers see the shadow on the wall
Writers see the vision from down the hall

Roses are red, Violets are blue,
They say it's addicting;
Now I know it's true.
But the roses are wilting;
The flowers are dead.
My hands are shaking;
And my hips are lined red.

Haha,



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXIII)


Of leprechauns and clover, yes...t'avail
I've neither, am in green to match fr'intents
Mine hazel eyes, and how blue heavns wear thence
Such fresh-washed golden light in sweet all hail
O me!  I'd feign go down which wooded trail
To hunt the early violets?  Mushrooms dense
Wi' import are sought out and sold for sense
Or lurid dreams, but I want that detail.
Wee white-striped, purple faces none bestir
'Cept wildest breezes, whitest virgins too,
With purple stripes across their miens in tour--
I'd love to bend and finger them anew!
Sip twa espressos, joking of, in poor
'Scuse, "faux" things we oft cherish, as all woo.

17Mar19a

sigh* as evidenced by which pieces "trend" being depressed is tops, while beauty is left to rot.  Whateffer.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXVII)


Blue skies.  And golden light with shadows' pale
Forms on the yellowed lawns and blacktop hence,
Sweet minutes whose eye seems tis April's, whence
My heart yearns 'gain to walk free and avail
Me of which blossom?  Daffodils to scale
Shall send green nubbins up til for intents
Their frilly golden heads can nod from thence
To playful breezes while wee violets hail.
Yea, soon Magnolia petals shall bestir
'Gain to soft winds, and pink-tinged satin woo
Thoughts of a bride upon the aisle as twere.
For now we'll have our refried beans and do
Dessert in birthday style with cake in tour
And ice cream for the Ides of March' ado.

15Mar19d

Kick me for feeling too smug over this pretty number which happened to write itself.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXVII)



O! how I yearn to wander through the tale
Of naked woods likeas a nymph from hence!
As if I am the sister of, fr'intents,
The trees whose boughs like arms reach up, t'avail
Me of the light is't? or that sense of pale
Keen longing to just breathe, non listning thence
Unto the softest whispers passing whence
We canna say twixt all the leaves, t'exhale.
I want to search for violets, like they'd stir
Now that rain's melted half the snow anew,
Whiles lo, winds toss the firs whose voice as twere
Sounds hoarsely in this fragile warmth's debut.
Yes, I can feel it in my bones--that pure
Note of sweet life which calls buds as it'd woo.

13Mar19a