"murmurings" poems
It’s just easy for them
Isn’t it?
This couple on the train.
They walked on laughing together
Holding hands
And I felt that familiar something-
Not jealousy
Not envy
But...
Chagrin.
Astonishment.
Incredulity.
Incomprehension.
Looking at them feels like looking at one of those
Impossible pictures
Where the stairs keep going forever in a loop.
It’s just
Easy for them.
It doesn’t hurt anymore, that thought,
But thinking it feels so odd in my mind
When I can’t imagine loving someone without
Shame,
Without pain.
They fit.
These people,
They fit without having to carve anything out.
They fit without punishing each other.
They fit like puzzle pieces cut from the same board-
No worries, they just go together, and that
Is that.
They fit like
“Of course.”
Like breathing.
Neatly.
Simply.
Carelessly.
I can’t imagine what it’s like
I can’t comprehend it-
To fit
Somewhere
Much less to fit somewhere
With someone.
I am always trying to corset myself into this world,
Lungs burning,
Trying to remain small enough to squeeze by
Catching myself by the wrist to keep from reaching
For anything.
And if there seems to be a spot where I might be able to exist as I am
It is always
Occupied.
Like a shiny pinprick
That thought hurts-
Not like the others it is newly cut
And still ******
The idea that maybe there is a home for me
And that maybe I was too late for it.
They’re laughing.
He says something clever,
Passes a hand along the small of her back
And she leans into it,
Smiling because she loves that he wants to touch her innocently.
They seem to exist behind glass.
Not for the first time I wonder
If I could just slip into that life
Like a drop into an ocean
I want it badly
I want it stupidly
And I examine all the parts of myself,
All the edges and cracks,
All the things I’ve worked so hard to protect and repair.
It is not a welcome sight-
I am not a home
I am like an old ruin
Full of murmurings and cold spots
Full of dusty sunlight.
I sigh,
Knowing the secret I keep so poorly-
That if I really had a choice to be otherwise
I would have already made it.
I couldn’t reach them if I ran for a thousand years,
They are too far away.
They walk off the train, arms linked
Talking about nothing
And I watch them go
Like a hallucination,
Like a mirage in the desert.
Her perfume smells like forgetfulness
And it lingers.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
Murmurings of words
so long unspoken,
now sent out across
the curved expanse
of our spherical home.
Murmurings of all our
voices and languages,
coalesced into one.
Winging out into open
space, like the nimble
murmurations of birds,
never quite touching,
yet deftly creating
virtual shapes,
markings recognizable
only from a distance.
*Do birds' own souls
unfurl and unfold in
these undulations?*
Starlings find aerial
corridors, travelling
together swiftly, so
to stay warm. Do we?
These murmurings,
our word-murmurations,
fly out into the space between us,
swiftly curving back, and then back again,
before dipping low, then nesting deeply,
so very deeply, into sweetest sleep.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Heaven
. . . Have Mercy . . .
Rest, rest, rest, for ye be none,
pitiful Fallen One.
Quivering bows flow over grave strings
bassoons and basset horns ring
pounding timpani’s announce:
Master of the Holy Choir
- - Renounced - -
Vain, fluttering heart
sublimely denounced, scorned;
fouled, ousted:
Horned.
Wailing strings, bassoons,
basset horns, thundering kettle drums
lift angelic voices to glorious requiem.
Pleas for Eternal Light’s remain
in wings refrain.
Heavenly Chorus' cradle to sustain,
mercy to soften
disdain.
The Holy Oracle contests --
to no avail.
Siblings’ choir protests.
Beauty beyond measure,
Angel of pure, Divine tessitura,
Absolution for Thee?
Foretellers of dark illusion
open Holy Scriptures to reveal
the drone of Eternal Damnation:
trumpets of ill
drag Thee to Hell.
Deep, ephemeral rhythms
exalt dancing strings,
seal destinies -- Kiss The Almighty King.
Glory be unto His Majestic Reign,
Will Supreme,
Tremendous,
Powerful, Holy Being.
Scribes record,
recite this dreadful day,
condemn Thee: Fallen One.
trumpets lament, strings mock
this unholy, forbidden way.
Bows flutter -- a memoir
of redemption.
Cries of confusion
dissipate
into muffled choirs,
murmurings
of deliverance.
Delicate chants
beg for forgiveness;
a Soul’s salvation, fusion.
To no avail!
Turbulent strings strike the Holy Duel
in wrath, writhing hatred,
majestic wings tumble --
twist to wrenched ******
Death devours, Birth becomes
the Fallen One.
Angelic dissolution --
distraught, agonized Ethereal,
Eternally beautify
these ghostly, trembling
winds, strings, harpsichord, drums.
Voices of brotherhood remembered,
cushion Angel’s earthly descent.
Breathe into infantile genius
heavenly symphonies
to sweeten a life
trapped, scorned,
condemned,
mourned
Love of God: Amadé
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
Well then; I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne’er agree.
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they (methinks) deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city.
Ah, yet, ere I descend to th’ grave
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since love ne’er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
Only belov’d, and loving me.
O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eas’d of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?
Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood:
Here’s wealthy Nature’s treasury,
Where all the riches lie that she
Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.
Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say
That ’tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I
And one dear she live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.
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there ain’t no ground for me to play on
and there ain’t no music to play,
anyway,
just another day
another life
another scythe
ringing in the distant fields
and that little thing you thought so fine
she was just some cheap cherry wine
and I thought myself fine sauvignon
though I did fail French a few times
but at least I didn’t get left in the distant field
to be harvested by the farmer
to be sold at the market
to be broken apart and maimed beyond measure.
those lips eating though,
they sure feel nice against ya,
they sure do someone justice when
they’re kissing all over
and massaging your broken body
but there’s no music down in the gullet
there ain’t no sound
but the deep and soulful murmurings
of the stomach,
the intestine,
the **** that will birth me once more
and again I’ll be in the water
and mix with the ocean
and become the rain and
rise
oh la la la la la la la la
rise
I’ll rise above it all
and rain down your body and my body
and all these broken, mutilated grain-bodies
and pour it all down on you
and the fields
and that little thing you left
lying in the middle of seas of wheat
she’s screaming to the sky
roaring to the rain that falls
telling me all she knew
all she loved
none about you
all of it runs
all of it resounds
making music on the ground
and singing all in the air
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
The fat lady came out first,
tearing our roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summinging the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
and dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.
There were murmurings from the jungle of *****
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermtented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, ***** There's no other way.
It's not the ***** of hussars on the ******* of their ******
nor the ***** of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.
The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships,s taverns, and parks.
***** was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go.
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
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**At first light I made a gift of coffee
it’s aroma stirred just one long leg
I lifted her naked into the wet warmth
to bathe awake and wash long hair
carrying her towelled wrapped form
bowed lips now sip then fight me
as I dress her in jeans, socks and top
beauty made calm and simple
Drunk sad at her leaving party
keeping her warm I had let Lust sleep
now still lolling in grief for dark peace
my selfish need drags her ****** up
into light trapped by the green valley
walking on along its grass path
the canoed river spits past a-whirl
rediscovering the torn through pocket
her hand delves questioning
to withdraw unhurried, stroked
by a flicking fishing rod
Recovered now leading me
over the bridge above the Boat
then on up the steep valley side
we arrive at the Ostrich for beer
then to dine on fish in the open
feeding and sharing her lips
we consider audaciously
the little garden’s potential
she hums prayer murmurings
pleased by the moment
On into the nearby woods
high above the Kings trail
to slowly descend hedged paths
we return to the river valley
slipping between shop doors
lifting a book we idle along
a new couple enjoying life
taking tea under waterfalls
back besides the Boat where
her beauty is now Queen
She leads me smiling by the hand
along both banks in the setting sun
till we near the Abbey's stone ribs
skipping around it's green shadows
a bank helps us to vault within
Fenced alone
ignoring distant figures
jeans and top colour
the darkening lawns
beckoning me closer
Lust now sits astride
the grass and stone
an open ****** grin
A week only, no more
I am left alone in her bed
on this smaller island
she ashore in another
busy - separated by a day
we talk lovers spells
and write away our hopes
Three months and two days
a call **** you we were....
pregnant” her sacrifice ours
on a stainless alter of
that new god Career**
.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 2:45 AM UTC
[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two
days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.]
Come to me only with playthings now...
A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes
Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers...
Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories
Of days that never happened anywhere in the world...
No more iron cold and real to handle,
Shaped for a drive straight ahead.
Bring me only beautiful useless things.
Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet...
And at the window one day in summer
Yellow of the new crock of butter
Stood against the red of new climbing roses...
And the world was all playthings.
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(...)
It is perhaps this association between birth and beginning each school year which led me to respect knowledge. The entire month of August tends to fly by, unnoticed, in anticipation of the day I see children forced back into ill-ventilated buildings to emulsify themselves in education, for knowledge. Knowledge, that Moloch of an idea! Hobbies, interests and Summertime activities were heaped on flaming tongues with words in order to illustrate their ultimate insignificance. We hoped to bring out the blessing of wisdom from its mouth. “What matters is the coming Winter, not the frivolous activities of undisciplined youths.” It is as if the leaves of every tree were humanity's hair, and August had pulled back every strand to blow the woodsy breath of Autumn smoke into life’s ear. "You won't be this way forever." I am yet seduced by Fall’s cryptic murmurings and led to believe in endless, Halcyon flight. With arms draped around us from behind, knowledge draws me into oblivion, with unlabeled memories and I throw my desires into Moloch’s mouth. Now that I am burning, my self is the voice of this demigod. My birth certificate is my body, holding a memory to be inscribed on some later form beside some other numbers. Life has only so many Decembers.
(...)
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 3:52 AM UTC
A bitter fuck-fest of lollapalooza.
Burn(ing) me, man. but don't taze me, bro.
If I got high on legalized substances, am I still escaping?
Metaphoric endorphin rushing as patio furniture sits silently,
slowly choking as I fill it with my own ***
I haven't written in so long, because I lack some passion.
I haven't written verbal joust in the form of bitter tongue because I felt it lacked restraint.
I ****** with a straight jacket; it felt great.
Perpetual virginity, a fool's errand running.
I have my V-card still; kind of... it's stunning.
I left a can of gasoline at an alien's house.
I came back and fire had engulfed what was left of my sorrows.
"I thirst," said He, the savior of the world.
Let's all ignore the singing signs of everything, boys... girls...
I have not a word to say in recompense for exploitation of your idiotic murmurings.
Well done, my good and faithful burdenings.
I can't speak to what hasn't yet been said,
but I can sure as hell guestimate, that we'd probably all be dead.
This **** ain't free.
Thank you, Kendrick Lamar, for reminding me.
This is me unfettered.
This is me unchained.
Give me a pen and some paper:
this **** will get strange.
I am Fred Astaire with a **** so fine, you'd think it's aged wine the way it twirls and floats.
Breaking up is ****** now put this poem down your throat.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
I cannot hear.
Sound has lost its crispness.
Articulated consonants
have merged into blurred murmurings.
The loss was not sudden.
No cataclysmic happening
but rather a gentle deterioration
of a faculty, once taken for granted.
Normal conversation, once a joy,
has become a struggle.
Repartee, chit chat, a little banter
is no more.
The quality of sound
once reverberated and filled spaces;
now I have no spaces – just tinnitus,
constantly grinding away.
To be sightless is to be aware,
with other senses sharpened;
but deafness leads to
introspection, loneliness and deep despair.
The half blind wear their glasses
and look so very wise.
The deaf man, with his hearing aid,
dithers.
I should know.
~
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:00 AM UTC
revolutions are coming
for the bored children,
of course, just sit tight.
soon the days will no longer
coalesce together like caterpillar chrysalis
clinging onto branches;
wherever situations harmonise
we’ll make gentle gestures, moving
to and fro until we declare
“this is the medieval economy,
we belong with the hordes of ants.”
But then again
sometimes I find myself in the dark
in schoolyards at night
on the lawn grass gazing up
at towers of concrete rain
I feel the apprehension falling
from the balconies,
and I swallow
the anxious murmurings
of productivity, diligence and attention,
digest their nutrients
and spit them on cocoons
in metamorphosis.
Though, I hope the spit does not spoil the butterfly.
I mean, I would not be surprised
if I caught a tummy bug
and it killed the whole world.
still,
rhetorical coincidences ceaselessly
resort into syllogisms,
essays babble incoherent thoughts,
cranes construct rows of identical houses,
times moves forward and backward
to save light, it consumes time
in my mind. oh revolving
prisms,
there will come a tiny time,
emerging, bit by bit, in unison;
there will be gentler things
to caress the subtle
skins of existence,
one by one, all at once,
momentarily again and again.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
The man,
a blank stamped out by machines in Japan,
modified
rectified
passed as suitable for use.
Empty then topped up with interactions 'til blocked up,
plug pulled.
Re-issued
replaced
wires encased in
vanadium.
Faces in the auditorium,
murmurings in the gallery,
a star explodes in a distant galaxy
I know how it feels.
Every random seed feeds leads leading into the core
and the core is what blanks and men are made for.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Your voice
soft and gentle
awakened me
to my delight
you
call my name
i
sit up and smile.
You open the windows,
i breathe the air
of the moist earth
heart beats loud and fast
when you come near..and whisper
good morning sweetheart
you smell sweet
i doze off
i dream
i see the heavy rain
the lightning
the murmurings
our laughter
our joys..
remembering times
reciting poems, close and funny
i open my eyes
i see you smile
no sadness... despair mild
my joy..
Our memories
the sweet taste of love
i
endure a calm
another sweet sleep of night
i dreamed!!!
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 4:36 AM UTC
i write poetry
from the collective,
that resides within my mind
they gather often,
at the water cooler
or for coffee, tea
and a bit of a natter..
all my idio's and syncranicities
my ego,
and my shy shuffling humble-bumbler
the flambouyant quirke,
the little girl memories
all get the memo and out they come.
earth mother, surfer chick,
daughter of despair,
moderator, instigator,
wanna-be litigator
acerberic premenstrual ditzbitch,
all represented there.
so in the end,
what you get to see;
are the minutes from the meetings,
or the gossip from the gatherings
the intimate murmurings...
from the musings.
of the legion, that ...
collectively
call themsevles
me.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
Murmurings of memories
Whispering in my ear,
Nuances of notions felt
From long ago, so dear,
Nuances of feelings held
From deep within my breast
Like the quiet stroll by lakeside
When love became our quest.
The way our fingers intertwined
That shyness in your eyes,
And the lovely way you giggled
And the way you softly cried,
The gentle touch of fingertips
That time I kissed your palm,
And the glory of the setting sun
Whilst strolling arm in arm.
Running up the golden sand
As white surf swept our feet,
And laughing at the joy of it
The magic so, so sweet.
And now ….
Those distant murmuring’s
just trickle down the years,
Those nuances of yesteryear
Sweet whispers in my ears.
Marshalg
11 May 2013
Pukehana
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Miryam stands beside
two Arabs
and a camel
to be photographed.
Baruch presses
the shutter
of the camera
and the scene
is captured.
She pays
the two young men
and they walk off
with the camel
talking in
their own tongue.
She adjusts the bikini top.
Brauch puts away the camera.
Someone said
they expect to be paid,
she says.
Why not,
Baruch says,
watching her fiddle
with her bikini bottom,
her fine behind.
The Moroccan beach
is deserted, except
for the departing men
and camel further
along the beach.
She complains of the heat,
fingers her fuzzy hair,
stares at Baruch,
scratches her nose,
gives a Monroe pose,
hands on hips.
Take me like this,
she says.
He obliges.
He shutters the camera,
his eyes capture,
stores away her image,
in more ways
than one.
She talks of his drinking
into the small hours
in that Tangier's
night club
the guide took them to,
the belly dancer,
the snake charmer.
On the way back
to the camp
in the back
of the truck
with the others,
he remembers,
the kissing,
the embracing,
stirring his pecker.
She talks
of the early morning sky,
the smell of kebabs,
her feeling heady,
how she thought
he'd come to her tent.
Too tired,
he says,
besides I had to think
of your reputation.
Others would know.
I'm not a nun,
she says,
getting me stirred up
and then leaving to stew.
They walk hand in hand
along the beach,
the tide coming in,
touching their feet.
She talks of her parents,
medical professionals,
the boy she had a crush on
who went off
with someone else.
Baruch feels her pulsing
along the wrist,
his fingers holding there.
She talks of the other evening
when they came down there
to escape the noisy party
at the camp, the dancing,
the music, the wine.
He recalls the darkness,
the deep tuffs of grass
before the beach
was reached,
she and him,
kissing, embracing,
moonlight shining,
stars like scattered
sparkling diamonds.
No one missed us,
she says,
no one knew
about me and you.
He remembers
the echo of music
over head,
the gentle breeze,
distant voices,
her murmurings,
sound of sea
upon the beach,
both feeling
and touching,
giving pleasure,
each to each.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
there is a secret code
a safe word for days that i
i have won and lay myself down
with your body knowing i
i have not broken my vessel
this boat i'm
i'm trying to carry us both in
i feel your heat and breath
full of helpless understanding
with want of my salvation
and your: Answers
you wear my anguish as a sunburn
when my eyes shine hotly
radiation and rubble
bits of shrapnel from love
that embed in your skin
in your skin that doesn't have a home
i sweep and dust my heart
i scrub it ****** and raw
set up a kick drum and boil the kettle
i wish you were comfortable here
(don't shift uneasy on the sofa
hands clasped politely in
someone else's living room)
i am as constant as the southern pole
i wish you would fly to me
without frog-dissecting the mystery
of belonging somewhere
i wish i could keep you
and let our roots entwine
i wish i could free you
wish you away with a dandelion
i wish i could know you
render English or some language
articulate the great ropes
that weave what has somehow kept us together
when the ship went down
will you be an autumn, love?
will you be beautiful and frosty as it dies?
will we season, love?
will we cycle as unbreakable as time?
there is a code word
for days that are alright
that will chase the calendar
i) as i will chase you now
ii) as i will stop chasing you
iii) as i will chase you always
until there is a knowing
until we choose our winters glowing
(not bound by chains
just fortified by sewing)
with every stitch and pull
every ***** and row
until there lies embroidered
the archaic ancient murmurings
of the dead language
of knowing when
and trusting
"Happy."
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 10:14 AM UTC
Cope, hope, or catharsis, one
may be forced to choose one
during the bouts
of restraint against release,
of reach before the sigh,
of desire, to control instinct.
Of all inevitability,
daring to call itself proudly by name
on this mercilessly constant tread
of experiencing, each it seems
with a collapsing and rising unique,
Planck’s momentous, memoried,
voice-blanking frames, slightly
shifting and forming (together
we conjecture) the same blurred image
of light, of looking,
of a thought, of a chance,
that maybe,
whether it is instrumentalist hands
or a playerless orchestra bestowing
sound, of granules grinding
over each other, with each
a glance, a lift of a hand,
in disguise of louder music,
that I cannot say is wrenching, that I
cannot say is strident, or sweet or
harmonic or agreeable—just heard somehow,
resonant,
seemingly against silence,
at the seeming heart—
that the note might be
the only one to hope for,
as cope with, as cathect oneself in.
The only one channel to that which,
if heard, will really be heard.
Not a down, then in, then up,
and out, uncertain.
Not a fading with time
or a never heard at all
except for mere murmurings
of chance. Though don’t shrug them.
Be exposed, undeniably, wholly, to them.
These, musicless, can become
still air, still flesh—mystery’s shut mouth.
Something of a mouthless bird.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 6:32 PM UTC
In a castle constructed of bones on a mountain high,
our hero sits alone on an ivory throne,
waiting for his current state of jejune to pass.
Whisperings of a voice, mellifluous air,
a singing so beautiful his heart skips a beat
at the gentle murmurings of such an ethereal voice.
And so he vacates his ivory throne
in search of this songbird that has invaded his walls,
the voice instils a certain hiraeth in his mind,
that village once so dear to him that now lies in ruins
due to his incandescent bursts of magical madness.
The owner of this voice, the eloquence, the elegance,
the image in his head that of a maiden on a rock,
as naked as the day she was born
and bathed in an iridescent sunrise.
A scintilla of a break in her voice
and she begins to sob at the meaning of her words.
He finds the source of this angelic sound,
a woebegone but comely creature supine on a table,
her eyes staring into heavenly mountains of madness.
She does not look to meet his wild-eyed gaze,
instead melting away until she is nothing at all,
leaving only dancing embers and phosphenes where she had lain.
He hears this burst of angelic quavers every day
but his madness permits no memory of each
to reside in his brain, comfortable and snug.
Instead, he suffers this delusion every morning,
when his head his quiet and thoughts are oblivion.
This siren swansong has no source in reality,
it is the last vestige of a mind damaged by time and solitude,
where the dawn chorus each morn’s twilight goes unheard,
but the ghostly choral vocalisations of a bitter memory
break his trance and he searches for the only sound not real.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
With fickle Freddy Frosts first showing
and the rising of ******* and
limbs fine tactile hairs, laguna,
filaments of sensation *****
quivering and striving
stretching toward a now absent warmth,
she always did have her sunny side showing, bare legs tucked under her
buttocks, leaning back on her hands
under that big Totara tree, face tilting
skyward and sandals kicked aside,
searching out her brighter sunny day
even now, with leaves falling down
the autumnal mix of ambers
Loamy greens and wooded browns
the earth cool and damp underfoot
her naked legs, arms defiant, barely crying for freedom!
Shivered morn's and eve's descend quickly
winters first indicators bringing
a refusal to employ blankets
hope tightly clinging to summers
silk sheets from Portugal,
feather light, soft as air,
just how she likes her thread count
high and expensive, sumptous,
(her pedantic obsession with fine linens)
totally ineffectual as calefactor,
so, she shivers on stubborn as ever,
Stay summer! Stay!
Even her loyal steadfast cicadas
have fallen silent now, summers last guard fallen to shortened days
and longer lonelier cool nights,
it is now she starts to miss a warm body
companionship, a worthy bedfellow
one who will not protest her cold toes
vicious advances on their warmer flesh
The sacrifice well worth the reward
of her warmest, ardent affections
tender embraces and softly spoken
murmurings of love and passion,
her full surrender to your body
with hers, she gives good, good love,
both body and mined soul deep too.
The countdown to clocks pushed onwards
pulls a wustful sigh from blueish lips
she is underdressed, flimsy chiffon
on a day made for heavier cloths
persists with summer daydreaming
of warm strong hands restoring her joy
under cold nights cloaked bed covers,
hot stolen kisses from a winter lover.
J.C. "littlebird" 05/04/2019.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
Night beckons
and moon, full of restive temptation
answers fruitfully—
Incline yourself
upon the seal of my soul
and bend my ear
that I may again
hear the gentle murmurings
of earth’s heart
beat in time with my own.
O tender, tender moon
you leave the imprint
of your maidenhood
as you salve
the dry earth
your moon’s blood bestowing.
Sow your seed
in the time of new moon
and yield,
again and again
to the carpet of heaven’s door.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
His whistling rises with the moon;
softened trills and murmurings
grow louder in the dusking sky,
drift across my ceiling, down
into my waiting ears.
A halo of satisfaction rings his face,
sweat drying on his chest
as he leans back upon my balcony.
I gather his things
and place them by the door.
I know this tune is not meant for me.
But I listen to it, still,
and dream of my hands
tangled in his soft feathers.
Who will sing me to sleep
when the nightingale is paired?
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:18 PM UTC
*He walked through a wood,
Answering the trees,
Like some golden roustabout,
A Sophocles among nightshades,
Willows and the moving waters,
Wilderness wandered with he,
Wild in the sun as a freckled
Red headed lassie.
White butterflies waved their flags,
Surrendering to the murmurings
Bespoke in the sorrels and sores,
Waves of mumble wept into the winds,
Sands underfoot hushed by with him,
Birds above dreamed of no landings,
He could hear each word in their songs
Warbling in the briars and time poured
Its draught, fresh and dear as the first
Unearthly sunrise.*
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC