"fuses" poems
Seagulls squeak and
As thunderclaps salute the laws of physics
I imagine they could speak
Sensory inputs of fresh strawberries become
A raging flood of summer sweetness that
Fuses with the hot electrified air
And I'm daydreaming that
Above this veil of angry clouds
Roams unseen ancient eyes
With tears braver than
What is boundless
Stronger and brighter than even
Endless darkness
They lie in wait
Their love
Their warmth
Bursting forth
Wombs of rainbows
And all that is precious
Yet still untold
Waiting to kiss the atoms of your skin
And once again
Paint your summer smile
Blink and you might forget that
They were you
Before you were even born
Sunset
Sunrise
Watch them never skip a beat
Wake up.
Kick ***
Repeat.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
i must give you a full physical exam
to fully grasp my prognosis and plan
of treatment for you... dont be afraid
i feel confident, no need to debate
i can satisfy
and gratify
your pre-dic-ament
in the richest succulent
as a specialist, to some degree
my healing hands work expertly
but to receive full and complete treatment
you must partake my honey rather frequent
for a better plan of action
i require a full body transfusion
a chemical mixture of center fuses
a delicate blending of our juices
this may require several procedures
over time it provides many features
healing properties of your most vital *****
however worth it, even if, it cost a fortune
to this a can guarantee success
but first you must fully undress
i work with energy transference
your help required for successful convergence
of the best possible results
between two consenting adults
bartering is certainly a viable option
for your long term medical condition
providing equal services for each other
helps maintain balance to one another
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
Thomas Alva Edison,
A most unusual boy,
Never really bothered much
With any childish toy.
His teacher thought he couldn't learn
And sent him home from school,
But tommy's mother knew for sure
He wasn't any fool.
He worked as a news boy on train,
He learnt to telegraph
In a way he concentrated
Made some people laugh.
Thomas alva Edison
had inventions by the score.
In his laboratory
he kept inventing more.
the phonograph,electric light
(with fuses sockets too),
a super storage battery,
and movies ,were a few.
If not for Mr.Edison
How dull our lives would be!
We might not have the radio,
The X-ray,or TV
-almighty emperor (premanand)
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
Moons fall,
Eggshell snow,
Blurred illumination,
Dreary lights,
Twinkles disintegrate,
Blazed sparks fade,
Faint complexion,
Awkward tree,
Ornament shadows,
Fuses burn out,
Connection lost,
Spirit dies out,
Yuletide lie,
Imperfection.
My eyes are dark as Halloween night.
Suns shine,
White angel,
Luminous site,
Multicolored pigments,
Rosy cheeks glow,
Rays seep through,
Vivid hue,
Elegant she,
Majestic gleams,
Beams strike around,
Fascination found,
Neon dyes around,
Joyful cry,
Pulchritude.
Her eyes are bright as Christmas morning.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
She calmly unlocks the front door
as the wind flings the screen
through wild tantrums. She droops down
into her dusted rocker, pushing
with her lavender heels to start the sway.
Her sole taps softly,
as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer
and the porch plays in discord
through dancing lace.
Interwoven hands lie atop her lap
in a sea of navy with floral ships
at its surface. Silver strands
fall from her clouded bun
and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.
With jaded eyes she looks at the corner
to a poor table, where a cold candle
peaks among a grassy field of melted wax
riddled with burnt fuses.
And near the candle, a dusted white hat
remains anchored to the wooden surface.
She can still smell the stale cigar smoke
lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”
she thinks as her daze slowly sets in.
The world seems quiet
as she fills her eyes with sleep
and the chair continues its march.
Her hands unlock from their grasp
and the screen door gently knocks.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
it was a day of sentences
snapped clean off at the root
and pulled from my mouth
like wisdom teeth
until i had none left
and i was out of words
out of breath
it was a day of stones
clinging tight to the walls of my throat
pebbles in my shoes
and boulders reduced to ash
slipping through my fingers
not enough to hurt anyone
but still stinging my eyes
it was a day of pink cheeks
not the tipsy, happy pink
but rather the wilted kind
inadvertently displaying
the red inside
it was a day of clenched fists
hands working overtime
dancing some twisted dance with no purpose
wringing, singing
an anxious song
as i stayed stubbornly in my seat
resisting the urge to dance along
it was a day of a need to run
into the bushes, through the woods of the crowd
and out to the other side
to the greener grass
and the cloudless sky
of a few minutes of alone time
it was a day of short poems
short fuses
all moments lived while the clock just ticked
and the bomb never went off
i'm still waiting
it was a day of waiting
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
At Vernal equinox, the Sun crosses
over the plane of the Earth’s equator
and equalises the night and the day.
Then will the Emerald Dragon awaken
from his hibernation beneath the earth.
Rising in the jade forests of Ghizhou,
this yin creature transforms the cold, dead land.
Primal and powerful, he gathers the Qi;
melts the mountain snows to ribbons of fire
igniting the frosty hillsides to growth,
fuses each thing with verdant energy,
revives again the seed, renews the bulb,
sprouting tender shoots juice-rich and sap-full
Shy blossoms set to bloom and burst with fruit
Fresh scented breezes ruffle foliage
maiden ferns shiver with their thrill and ******
Grasses and reeds bedewed and beryline,
murmuring and humming low and dulcet,
dancing and swaying at the river’s edge.
Roots of every tree draw deep from the earth
Magnolia and Frangipani breathe
and pant out fragrant honeyed lusciousness
Spring sparks and quickens, kicks and is alive.
© M.L.Emmett
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 5:38 AM UTC
I am making excuses
To put you in my life
I'm pushing the fuses
Not Scared of getting electrified
I'm covering the stink of my thoughts
I'm hiding from you the most
No I will never admit
Not even if I rot in the stink
Don't worry no one can read through me
I keep a low key
My wires are tied up
From my demons am fed up
So roll me up
And swallow
For now end the sorrow
Don't think about tomorrow.
run faster than a bullet from a gun
Chasing the orange sun
Take a trip to my maze
See the things I can't erase
Like the details of your face
I studied your everything
Mapped it down like a blue print
Memorized your fingertips
Stared at them so much feels like I drew your lips
Can you see it in my eyes
Or you got no clue of the miles I drove in your eyes
Assuming all what's written on the pages
Of your life
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
Eyes soft as silk, mirror moon-fire along the silver cusp of my soul,
Enchantment wanders the opalescence of this dream,
Heartbeat to heartbeat it pulses, drifting down soft, as stolen breath
Along the throat in this trembling garden of body....
Whispers of hunger, penetrate soft folds of midnight’s caress upon
Velvet’s pout, a taste of honeyed tease, searing spoon-fed ecstasy,
Brushed new, upon warm whispers,
In the wet of US....
A moist fragrance of sighs, unleashed, capturing blossoms swelling, under moon-spill,
Urgent fingertips dance delicately across shadowed yearn;
Undressed, beguiled, stirred sweet, behind naked eyes,
Where lavender ache beckons....
Satin pleasures unbutton heaven in the breath of swollen whispers, and
The breeze of destiny lays tangled in sheets, touching, teasing
The shores of prismatic submission;
Spooning wet, the wild of embers scorching need, prompting the meld of ***** as
Seduction fuses and passion licks unholy wet, cocooned in silk spill...
His melting shadow arches, quivers the canopy of my offering,
Roller-coasted beneath his lip-ride, where fire bleeds my skin, and I am lathed upon the parched desert of his tongue;
Where crimson visions seep, thrusting, deep the lilac of petals, and
Hungry hands trace the rhythm of trembles,beyond the swallowed screams....
Darkened eyes watch, as I burn the ****** slipped from his tongue;
My trembling, hips glisten, trailing whispers, slowly swallowing hidden breath,
Drowning him in an oasis of silken desire, where dewdrops of my rain trickle from the corners of his smile,
Orchid nectar sliding between two tongues, saturated, tasted beyond the press of lips...................
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
This town is famous
for pretty faces,
broken legs,
and misplaced names--
A sentence penned,
An Oxford comma
dangling off the edge of pages,
setting off appositive phrases,
lighting fuses--accidental--
phasing out of view and staging
tactical retreats
The winds of February mark off
intersections
Dow & Broadway
Midnight laughs echo off stratos
then fall back--
snowstorms at midday.
Caught in the rain on Sunday evening
this place don't stay awake so late.
Except, perhaps, for pretty faces,
misplaced names, or broken legs--
But forget the Oxford comma
retreating, drenched, off of the page.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Wasted words I should have thought instead of said
Wasted dreams of who knows what stuck in my head
Wasted thoughts and wasted time,
Wasted explosive dramamine
With about fifty billion fuses.
Wasted money
Wasted laughs
On wasted verbal acrobat
-ics that used to summon smiles,
T'would only last but for awhile
Before they'd disappear again
Though I may not see you,
You're still my friend.
Wasted smiles on
Wasted jokes
Wasted guys in overcoats
Written on pages
Never finished
Endless stages.
Wasted sorrow
Wasted pain
We may ne'er connect again
But I still love to make you laugh
Though you may think I'm such an ***
I am wasted.
Wasted for the better ends
Wasted for family and friends
But I still see where hope begins...
I am wasted.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:07 PM UTC
And So the Day Begins (Bring Them Home)
~ With love for T.R. & S.R., my friends ~
<>
*Their spirits, sensed, well kept,
in a sudden breeze, a sudden sneeze,
at the precise exacting, millisecond,
when skin, mind intersect, coinciding,
Mine, Theirs, and wet eyes and
smile traces arrive unbidden but both
together, always simultaneous and I know,
full hearted, full throated gasp grasping,
my soul and hands, touching, clasping,
in the kitchen odors, morning coffee,
early daylight across my face sweeping,
on the tongue, their taste on mine,
and I am present in this moment
as they are too, with me forever if
but just for a heartbeat, maybe two,
stilled yet, my heart trembles as it fuses
with Them and Everyone of Us is renewed,
and so the day begins,
Oh Our Children!
remembering, a point on our journey,
our always unbroken continuum.*
<>
7:17AM
July 22
Two Thousand and Twenty Three
but one more day until…
Jul 22, 2023
Jul 22, 2023 at 7:38 AM UTC
You find yourself thinking in color. It permeates through every inch of what you know. Thoughts get processed in them and translated by it. Although I favor the one that shines most bright, I barely claim it. I lack of it. In fact, I come to deny it, to exclude it, rather than make it my own.
Lets think through color. Nelson lives in the reflective imposition of it. She strips it down and eats it whole. She hugs its core and stares right at it. She owns it, unlike the string of light I keep refusing.
He, she, they, constructed this. We, you, them, distort it, reshape it, bend it up, and cut it down.
It is the only lineage that connects us all. Dickinson saw the strength of the grass like your mom did and with the vision you do. But, color gets lost in translation. They used Doves to instill fear and swordsmen saw Paper as a sign of truce.
It hurts as well. Obsidian carries pain within. Marks on his back from a remote past, a past that is still dragged to the present. Obscure in its presence. Regarded as biologically distinct. Yet, we now know better, or pretend to.
Blends. Blends in, it merges, fuses, makes new. Transforms. Distorts. She made me see the core once, and it bleeds.
Not the primary but the others, from distant lands on a new canvas, filling in the outlined sketch.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
It's a perfect day
Yeah it's made just to play an acoustic
But the first one
With roots with the frame of a huge stick
And it's just for
You it's ingrained oh with the name of The One and straight from
An unpolished and untamed platonic love so here it comes
A song prior to the Vinaccian fame because baby I'm
A pharmaceutical part-time musical carpenter of the heart and the
The first verse in reverse comes words we've never heard
Like a message from the best and it's a version for the birds
Where infancy's re-lived
To speak of infantry's a kid
And the reviver speaks Malayalam-sans and baby then he says
"It's the way I am and it's my way man"
Maybe you hear it
Girl I humor and I do it when I want you
Maybe incoherent
But I'm fluent in the music to taunt you
To be your pioneer
Oh it's like fuses to my ears 'cause
I'm deaf with nothing left
But yeah the music you can hear and
I lose it when I'm with you my dear so
Maybe you hear it
I humor and I do it when I want you
Baby incoherent
'Cause I'm fluent in your music to flaunt you
Oh you hear it
Girl I humor and I do it when I want you
So incoherent
But I'm fluent in the music to taunt you
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
It was not a choice, intimacy filled our souls touching every tender bone with the sleekness of silk
From blood to bone
Screeching every bit of emptiness
Swallowing any shallow monster that tended to our loneliness
From tongue to toes
Not a desperation hollows between the beauty of embrace,
A world around slows, all disspearing to his sweet kisses stealing my breath
And addiction sets in, an instant craving when distance is your temporary belonging
And addiction such as a cigarette
Smoke filling your lungs
Only intimacy filling you heart with bright yellow flowers, desperation fulfils its duty.
Seperation, our anxiety
With howling winds a cooling breaths that is not yours every moon and star looks like you
Intimacy, a passion
A passion in touch for your hand wrapped round mine
The sound to be dragged so close it fuses as one beat
To be brought to the insides
Craving the sense of settled home in unfamiliar places
A hunger to never leave
Bur to fall to the deepest pockets in our wholesome loving souls
Just to come back again
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
-on a Miami academic being sued
for fetish ****** harassment
Quitchie of Reid,
you and your electric feet -
you make my safety fuses blow
when I see the tapping of your toe,
slowly touching a tile beneath.
Have mercy on a man in chains,
whose decency goes down the drains
once tortured by the endlessly enthralling sight
of your hot, sweet, cruel might
that boils the blood inside his veins.
Ah... Quitchie of Lewd,
you're so electro-cute.
One day my arm will stretch,
your soles, your toes, your nails I'll catch
and down I'll go in flames -
happy, void and mute.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
When once the twilight locks no longer
Locked in the long worm of my finger
Nor ****** the sea that sped about my fist,
The mouth of time ****** like a sponge,
The milky acid on each hinge,
And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.
When the galactic sea was ******
And all the dry seabed unlocked,
I sent my creature scouting on the globe,
That globe itself of hair and bone
That, sewn to me by nerve and brain,
Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.
My fuses are timed to charge his heart,
He blew like powder to the light
And held a little sabbath with the sun,
But when the stars, assuming shape,
Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep
He drowned his father's magics in a dream.
All issue armoured, of the grave,
The redhaired cancer still alive,
The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth;
Some dead undid their bushy jaws,
And bags of blood let out their flies;
He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.
Sleep navigates the tides of time;
The dry Sargasso of the tomb
Gives up its dead to such a working sea;
And sleep rolls mute above the beds
Where fishes' food is fed the shades
Who periscope through flowers to the sky.
When once the twilight screws were turned,
And mother milk was stiff as sand,
I sent my own ambassador to light;
By trick or chance he fell asleep
And conjured up a carcass shape
To rob me of my fluids in his heart.
Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.
2k
I am running
Brushing bushels of roses and daisies and sunflowers
Treading ground tread to the degree of infinity by lives lived before me
Through the green fields and under the arms of wise, old trees
And I stop under one of them
I settle down and take a seat
Quick breaths become slow and purposeful
Taking in the life around me and breathing out, feeding it
The orange, red, purple sky above looks down on everything, on me
My breath fuses with the waves of a life continously complimenting all that I see
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
a flame sparks
fuses into lavender
beauty diffuses
smoke, scent,
peace.
Freedom, joy, love
earth, wind
divine.
Melt...ash
but lavender.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
"You are not alone. There is beauty in sadness. Many run from it or treat it as something that shouldn't be. We need to feel sadness to feel joy. Your sadness is cold. Can it be made to feel warm?”
can it?
I am starting
to think
yes
realizing
everything you said
carries its own weight
in truth
without sadness
I wouldn't know joy
duality
is in
every part of this universe
from
the ever shifting
ocean
in my soul
to the massive star
we named
the sun
and
she shines
because of duality
massive
amounts of energy
bursting
pushing
to get out
the weight
of her being
crushing
pushing down
with equal
force
the suns
core
fuses
transfers
makes
something else
out of
what is inside her
her hydrogen
becoming
helium
the constant change
creating
something almost
stable
almost
predictable
one day
there will be nothing left
inside of her core
to fuse
one day
I will have nothing left
inside of my soul
to write
when there is no more
hydrogen
left
no more
passion
left
she will collapse
under the weight
of her existence
the pressure
of this alone
causes
more
change
heavier
elements
heavier
thoughts
she will swell
growing
larger
darker
intrusive
making us feel
her being
leaving us
with no where to go
but to accept
and to be
engulfed
after
there is nothing left
she will collapse
from
her giant self
overbearing
us and our neighbors
becoming
a fragment of who
she used to be
rotating
still
the passion
is gone
her life source
is gone
the light
lingers
until she has nothing left
her light
burns out
and
until time stops
she will stay
a brown
quiet
dwarf
all that's left
are her memories of
the life
she gave
to us
I hope
when it is my time
when my fuel
has become heavy
and when I engulf
those
around me
forcing
my deadly heat
onto
my
planets
that I won't collapse
into
a smaller star
into
a lesser version
of me
i want to be
big enough
that I explode
tearing
through what's left
with the beams of energy
I've stuffed inside of me
let my supernova
carry the dust
of the planet
you were
let me
push you elsewhere
farther
let me
bring new life
energy
hope
when I explode
and then
let me eat
anything
that gets too close
you will never leave
you are mine
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
"A rat is a rat."
He said
"Attack, attack."
His double vision
Scares me sometimes
The way he fuses word
And ties ideas lines apart
He thinks along a separate plane
Always conscious of the next step
"A live rat is worth less than a dead one."
He looks down
"Because a dead rat is already dead."
I shake my head and
I agree, wholeheartedly
But he stares at me
Unsure if I comprehend his meaning
"Your eyes tell me you don't feel the same way,"
And his eyes dart to his shoes
I open my mouth to speak
"You don't have to explain yourself,"
He blurts
"You're the kind to pay the lowest price.
Even though you have the money."
I smile and languish the comment
I was raised in Hell
And the Devil doesn't pay well
"You're the type of man who'd never think of paying more when he can get what he wants for less.
Especially when it means he gets to **** a rat himself."
He knows me
He scares me
He lets me speak
"You know me too well."
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
alight a path of excited neurons
saved by corporeal fuses
sacrificed fried to save
my head from overloads all the
amperage storing up
Danger High Voltage!!!
flows inside from too much reality.
I need your alternating current
to mediate my DC.
To my Tesla, like, you are , Miss Whitman.
To your Edison I am but one spark of Voltaire.
You sing of electric bodies ten million volts.
I imitate Voltaire as he did Virgil.
If someday we should unite,
our sparks would alight on eternity.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
At Vernal equinox, the Sun crosses
over the plane of the Earth’s equator
and equalises the night and the day.
Then will the Emerald Dragon awaken
from his hibernation beneath the earth.
Rising in the jade forests of Ghizhou,
this yin creature transforms the cold, dead land.
Primal and powerful, he gathers the Qi;
melts the mountain snows to ribbons of fire
igniting the frosty hillsides to growth,
fuses each thing with verdant energy,
revives again the seed, renews the bulb,
sprouting tender shoots juice-rich and sap-full
Shy blossoms set to bloom and burst with fruit
Fresh scented breezes ruffle foliage
maiden ferns shiver with their thrill and ******
Grasses and reeds bedewed and beryline,
murmuring and humming low and dulcet,
dancing and swaying at the river’s edge.
Roots of every tree draw deep from the earth
Magnolia and Frangipani breathe
and pant out fragrant honeyed lusciousness
Spring sparks and quickens, kicks and is alive.
© M.L.Emmett
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC