Jasmines peek at me from
the neighbour’s garden,
my heart is given this moment,
it’s an opportunity — a gift.
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Jasmines peek at me from
it moves and exalts us
encourages and summons joy.
Eyes smile and
bodies swing to the beat.
perennial, strong and
clear in the air.
Begin with light like a diadem growing,
the edges transparent
but raised in everything
that’s not situated
to fly more than a wing.
See the tree that captures sound
surrounding the soul’s wish
whose arms extend into the clear air,
a heart only in its rays.
Process notes: I will be posting over at https://1sojournal.wordpress.com
Elizabeth is kind enough to be offering us writers a homebase this month.
Please consider looking at what Elizabeth has to offer
I enter origin’s darkness closing my eyelids,
footprints of the day in a monotone channel.
No sound; it keeps away doubtful movements.
I get comfortable with the discomfort of my grey area,
I understand the glory of angels
where the reflections of monsters are real.
It’s complicated, it’s amethyst, it’s ancient.
I acknowledge that I love and am inspired
even though my landscape has changed.
The last window,
the last eyes light night’s fire,
surrounding the trees are my soul’s wishes.
I go out the door
looking for a revenant;
ink that has the power to enchant
soulful voices of dialogue in emotional synthesis.
Pouring slow into these hours
souls sigh in the clear air
branches reaching to engage the sunrise.
Sympathetic as usual
your musical voice vibrates and
comes to me beguiled and ruined,
sometimes love injures and kills the heart.
It’s not like a hospitable coffee offered to all visitors
any time of day; delicious and hot.
It’s a liqueur that burns slow bleeding in the veins.
Like a howling dog you come for a few drops from the vessel
and with dismay I turn and walk away
with the white glow of stars and an innocent moon,
an ineffable majesty of an unnamed owner.
Even though I might love your confusion
when you say night and it’s dawn or
when I say I am the wind
and you build praise in word symbols,
doors and windows in the night.
Disaffection extends my dawn and
our fog colors the fauna.
Process notes: Written about an ended friendship of almost 14 years. Things happen and people change.
The earth smells exclusive tonight,
wind fills the trees and lanes,
a train passes further on — lightweight.
If only I could talk about the voices I hear,
they’re an invisible stream of your breath,
where the past is lost at my fingertips.
Miscellany rains with
feelings of someone who descends,
the cat’s shivering and
there’s coolness where I stand.
My heart beats slowly.
When tomorrow dawns
I’ll say I looked at the night.
White pillows at night descend.
Pain sounds its celestial sorcery;
the mirage that returns
because there’s twilight.
I don’t cry
because there’s no fire,
no grief masturbation,
no dilation to raise my second thought,
neither hanged nor dead dog,
neither bombastic, nor Jesus, nor father, nor virgin.
But I don’t think much about the unreality of things
they’re just dust shared in nexus.
Death for a woman is transparent
it’s male and bandaged.
Someday we’ll greet all our fans with gestures
superstitious and pale.
The windows remain open for
timely renewals and sighs.
I recall I am alive
when the music filters through my autumn sweater.
I look at the horizon
it exists and bends with
what I can no longer hold.
I am alone
only in one step,
only in one memory.
Then someone with his face visits and smiles,
he lies on the bed and I notice his exquisite hands.
This is what remains;
my uncertain nakedness lives imagined,
the premonition of not being accurate enough
in the last voices of an embroidery.
Vainly I point toward his body.
My best atmosphere to the heart.
See me here with the moon
no less memorable than repeated time itself.
When I can feel my senses;
I am the lines, the words and the mirrors.
This is where you smile
beautiful and thoroughly flushed
listening to the night’s colors.
This is what you wear and
the rest is silence.
Morning — the sun,
the silhouettes and
a heart to birth the shore.