"equinoctial" poems
the ferocious coithus interrupted,
for that look, of a feline woman
of lioness on fire
your body, screaming for the
placer, hidden in your own
body.
claming for a lascivious touch,
looking for me to wip you
tiernamente.
and then love you in silence.
the feroucious torsion, of
your body, touching
mine.
the litlle fire, become
explosion, in your gutts, of,
feline woman.
your roaring for my bite,
then you stay quiet,
looking silent.
for that loved beast,
to **** you in the dark,
as a good girl, wanting
danger.
and the equinoctial touch,
becomes plaseant.
as if the pain and the lost,
where the exquisite consecuense,
of being wath you are,
a lioness.
a goddess biting the dust,
between the lost and the
exquisit, of your fall,
of your humanisation.
being lost you find your center,
your lioness, roaring,
oh loved beast.
lost in the estertors,
of your insides, on fire,
and between that fire,
you found her.
your lioness, your leopard,
wild beautiful,
and serene,
adored, loved,
free,
mine.
my leopard.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
-Elizabeth Bishop
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
Harvest Moon
Black silhouettes.
The witches danced under the harvest moon.
Incantations in a foreign tongue.
Exquisite equinoctial beauty.
Harvest moon.
Hanging full in the sky.
Blazing silver.
As if corona guards her.
Autumnal feel.
Nip in the air.
Firmament illuminated glorious.
Lighting up the night sky.
Light ricocheted from mother sun.
Harvest moon.
Huge image hanging in the heavens.
Perhaps a perfect photograph.
Image saved in minds' eye.
Thrown by blessings to the skies.
Suspended on autumnal kiss.
As if a ball of glowing air.
'Tis a beautiful bright night.
Celebration of last summer's end.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
Summer falls whilst winter flows
upon the blossoms of forget.
Mementos of a time long gone
wisp through flashes of thought
before sinking on the edge of the equinoctial rim.
Skeletons cackle with the thought of hell
nestled in the depths of their empty eyes,
then washed away
we lift our necks to
breath in the thick condensation of death.
We forget, then forgive
We harbor and let it fester
let if fester...
let it feed and grow and love you with a corrupted pleasure.
Come!
Have my soul, steal my heart and let it go
not.
We must sink alone
tangled in the lines of algae and slime.
You alone and I alone, and when one dies two others go.
Build up thy sin, squeeze lust through a pure soul.
Detach yourself
from everything
unlatch my hatred.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
Grievous
I hold you as the chameleon with his spring-trigger bone
Holds his tongue
And I will catch you as a fist
I will lick the stench from your odor sacks
as a skunk
All those creepy little fragments
bugs in the system;glitched codes
they are shackled souls in a microsecond arc-length
of the universal
Prodding the dirt
and the worms
as stars
How about all the spice trees?
The many different species of food glitter
they make the buds sparkle, they are thinking of the taste
of umami, of sour, of patchwork gaze
the cooked vestibules of bone
the marrow, seeping into the stew
The pepper trees are smoked
equinoctial bonfires
You and I are yet to be cooked through
A taxi in the trader joes parking lot
Big repetitive 7's splattered across its paneling
I won't forget when i'm drunk or inebriated somehow
The tree in the center of town is lit up with LEDs
Branches curling like worms
You are Pharos, you are the great celestial beam
you are the crescent moon, thin as a sleeve
and the hot taste of batter on your breath
the way you let my Guinness cool off next to the space-heater
and give me yogurt from the local townsfolk
Everything is creamy, you said.
But i don't like to hear that
It's a steel rod into my brain, that.
I am a simple Vishnu Hare Brahma
I do not have any purpose but to be enlightened
and worshiped for my powerful odors
and a four-chambered bowel
that makes the turn easier for worms.
2
Pitiful
You are the hopeless pod
the many wildebeest, crossing their annuals
through twirling water-crocs,
Lion Prides
Leopards shifting within the brush
Bacterial infections from ***** tusks
Strange metal boxes
No 7's on this side
I want to blow the ******* skulls off of anything
that aims for you, sweet mare
45-70
Will literally send chunks of it into orbit
Lion or Turtle or window or Children
The most godly thing is a bullet
And the streams of blood that will seed a new ravine
and seep the next feed of riverrun
Will you be mine, then?
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:39 AM UTC
I was right outside
when she pulled the trigger
and I remember
*crashing sound, in my head
my knees, my shoulder blades. A turbulent din
heart beating like a cave collapsing
air desperate to escape from my lungs
and silence.
Light falling away,
slowly like snowflakes
with the weight of dusk
and me standing
staring at the holes that were in everything.*
Suddenly, everything was a mountain.
and I remember it
---------------------------------------------------------------
I sit here and watch as if I couldn’t reach out and touch it
Can I?
The decay is not in your heart or your mind, it is in your soul.
Its coming out on your face. Gray stains forming around your eyes.
How do you get rid of that?
Your playful (terrified, i’m so scared, i’m scared) voice.
In 3am empty
sitting on the floor by the window gasping for air.
How can I reach out and touch that?
I watch the nights wash you pale with insomnia.
Strings of black hair. White face. Cold morning light.
How can I reach out and touch that?
I sit here across from you at the table, watching your eyes look through me.
Words are coming out of you that I don’t understand.
Words that don’t fall on deaf ears
but on deaf hands
making me suffer like I was paralyzed.
Your lips barely move as you speak.
*There’s a sharp edge to this
its cutting the line between consciousness and sleep*
you’re saying
The days have been good to me
you’re saying
I am just going to get older.
**I can feel it in me
death is in me,
and I cannot
get it out**
For a moment it is quiet. You sit there, like something meant to be on its own \
and I sit here, like an empty chair.
How could I reach out and touch that?
My mouth opens
Be okay.
I’m saying
Please be okay.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
its gradual , the darkness is invading me
filling the back of my eyes
the depths of my ears
the pores of my skin
until I die.
I take another dragging breath.
feel my bones bend the wrong way
too far
These days feel so old
this sky is so heavy
this wet air tastes so much how it did
last winter sinks in.
and I remember it so well .
---------------------------------------
today, a new offense
I could not believe it
the sun pulled itself up out of the ground
without you
january sun
light without bright
day without warmth,
burning as dull as a nightmare remembered
following a shallow line that is far from equinoctial
time passes like strangers faces on the street
already, fall falling falling
a falling scattered hush
night, again
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC
Evenly poised
for a mere moment
at a tilt in time
equality reigns
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 4:30 PM UTC
Equinoctial blaze of fire
Evaporates
the
Light,
but meet hand in hand
halfway during
the rise
of
twilight.
If you could stay any longer,
the blaze would fade
and you would conquer.
- i feel much warmer in the presence of your night.
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC
Arc of the Solstice
High summer’s solstice is the year’s proud crown:
The sun has reached his apogee, and now
Will linger through July’s life-ripening days
Then drift into a worn Augustan gold
September is a sort of seasonal coup
Who in the equinoctial treaty signs
For a slow dissolution of the sun
And all his ancient power to rule and reign
In his old age the sun is seldom seen –
Diana, then, is crowned as winter’s queen
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC