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K Balachandran Jul 2014
There is a forbidden pleasure in the poet's art
it's like having an illicit ****** liaison, is it not?
now it can be told, that's the way one felt
enticing while evasive, was her two way dance.

In the secret society meeting last full moon night
for the first time I came face to face
with the enigmatic girl, rumored to be  the mistress
of the poet I admire, for his skills of allusion and  veiled speech
she was so young and somnambulistic in appearance
her lips were so thin, the only remarkable thing
still in memory those pale lips remain,
how helpless we are in a world, curtained off
to keep our secrets in rooms of green darkness!

The poet was absent, but he was very much present by that,
as her shame intrudes when she starts conversations.I found him there.
The words whispered from her lips were not heard, however one tried
none listened to it, I bet, a poet's mistress is as curious
as an  object of art, stolen from its rightful place, I suppose

When the boat returned to the island to take us back
we were the only passengers left, at last, how strange!
In turgid waters a fallen full  moon like a snake swam
I was looking at its wriggle, creating a tragic geometry
that reminded me her thin lips, she sat next to me, motionless
her soft breathing, was rhythmic poetry I kept imagining,
till we parted exchanging a faint smile. her's was florescent.
So much is hidden about the art of creativity and from where it springs
Valsa George Sep 2016
Somewhere in a strange land
An unknown heart throbs for me
      Etching an amorous graffiti
On the blank walls of my mind
Where ever I am, I feel a pair of eyes
Fondly surveying and scanning me,
Speaking to me in silence
And keeps me awake in the night
I feel it all, I hear it all
Filling me with a sweet ache!

When night birds croon in the woods
And their mates answer the serenade,
When the moon begins her somnambulistic walk
And light beams percolate through pine needles,
When a hundred eyes open in the blue heights
To watch over the sleeping Earth,
When the whistle of a train is heard far away
And its music wanes into a monotonous drone,
When the rooster makes his first clarion call
Breaking the serene silence of the night,
When glow worms float in darkness
Like cruise ships over the sea,
When night gales shake the slender coniferous trees
And wind whistles among their leaves,
When sailing clouds blind the stars
And the night turns into an ebony shade,
When the opening Jasmine secretly exults
In her own exotic scent,

Sitting in my dimly lighted room
      I draft this message of love
      Pouring all my warmth into it
      Thus emptying my love laden heart
That blazes with the fire of love
And encode it in cryptic script
      To be mailed to you, my love!

Oh, it might take much time
Better it be a whispered endearment
Sent through this perfumed night breeze
That shall carry it from this end to that end

So kindly leave
your window open!
Jack NW Oct 2016
I still think of you, you know
     in the dead of night,
     in the quietest hours,
     in the lonesome dark

I still dream of you, you know
     in my midnight slumber,
     in my subconscious life,
     in my somnambulistic searching

I still long for you, you know
     when I feel that itch,
     when relationships fail,
     when I crave attention

I still think of you, you know -- Do you ever think of me?
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2016
.
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2013
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2014
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2014
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2013
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2012
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies 
Elation, we walk through meadows 
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
GfS Jun 2015
I am cursed with words
for words were never mine to begin with
I am knowledgeable of words
but never the knowledge itself
words are not the language I speak
Words are a curse for me

You*
You have a gift with the words I don't speak
Cause words are in love with you
I fathom at the heart of your soul
For that is where words reside

I cannot speak truly of what I have in mind
For I have said before,
words are a curse to me
Because I have no words to speak
I only have my mind and soul to listen

I question why I have no gift with words
Because with words, I cannot speak
For I wish to ask the God almighty
To give me the words I seek

I could only wish for words
as sweet as yours
Because your words seem to breathe
I wish to speak the words
that go beyond dreams
The words that stay in
somnambulistic silence

No one uses them as well as you
It's like you dwell in another realm
I could only wish to have words like yours
But alas, *my curse is silence
Maybe it would've been better if I remained in silence

05.07.2015
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2012
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2015
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
van Young Oct 2018
Does the moon mourn
After the current day dawns
Exposing the deepness of a blue soaring sky
Causing quasi questions in the form of the wayward why

Why such a mysterious bulbous blue
Why such a deep hallowing hue
Does the moon mourn
When the sun starts to spawn

Some Thursday morning eyeing a ready race
The mirror shows the usual and customary feckless face
A mindless ritual often fills the busy area around the table top
Between texting nothing and following other conspicuous consumption reaching a full stable stop

And how does this apply to the magic moon
Which is not cheese so no need a stupendous sized spoon
Some of us wonder re alimentary alienation
While sitting and twitting about the companion moon’s satellite station

Does the moon mourn
As stars start to fawn
Matching a moment of a somnambulistic state
Allowing its’ gravity to push and pull the flow of water from a timeless surreal place in space

Does the moon mourn
As each new day dawns

— The End —