Shadow figurines
And she chained him to the ground;
bestowed a kiss upon his lips
as if she meant no harm,
and let a crown of sorrow take place
on the top of his head.
Making Love on the Bank of the Eel River
Even as he entered me I thought
What a great story this will be
Naked, exposed, in love
Surrounded by the giant, ancient redwoods
The fresh smell of the forest
The intoxicating sounds of the river
The relaxing heat of the afternoon sun
The gentle bite of the cold wind rushing over us
Completely connected
To him
To nature
Ecstasy
That’s the story I tell
At the same time I felt the
Uncomfortable penetration of nature
Trapped, prodded, I barely know this guy
Almost smothered by the weight of his body on top of me
The pungent odor of his sweat
The gritty pain of a million tiny rocks digging into my back and climbing up my ass with each thrust
The salty taste of huge drops of perspiration that fell onto my face and into my mouth
The jarring shudders of freezing wind alternating with the blistering rays of sun
Completely frustrated
With him
With nature
Reality
That’s the story I try to forget
And So She Died
I have had the options of reading
Of death and the deceased
I found most much misleading
Death is no fiction
I felt only love, lived only in fantasy
I was foolishly mistaken
She was a flower blooming, a vigorous sea
A haunted passion of the desolate
Grief swayed with her, misery danced around
And laughter laughed mystified
She was my relief, solace found
Though I suppose that was unfortunate
She was a deluge of desire
For even all divinity could hardly wait
To claim her life and tear me apart
No, time never glanced twice
No skies fell
They did what they did, rolled the dice
And all was fine
Amusing to my misery as she fed on me
As grief chewed out my soul
As I fought divine decree
Death remained unexplainable
I wondered, as autumns claimed my springs
Where I had first lost reality
As indefinable, death has a favorite lullaby it sings
As it sang to me each night
It sang and sang and I died each time
And so she died, yes, she died
And here I am, capable of rhyme!
Gifts of the Spirit…10 am
I watched him as he walked across the room.
His head hung low, his shoulders bent.
The weight of his burdens evident.
He sat, no smile on his face,
No cheer or wonder in his voice.
It seemed as though everything in his world was wrong.
It was obvious that he didn’t know.
He didn’t know that he was loved.
He didn’t know what he meant to the God above.
I started to sing a song in his ear.
A song of what he was worth.
I sang of his talents, I sand of love and possible rebirth.
I whispered to him so that he would know,
That he can let go of the past.
That despite what others do and say, he can find a joy that lasts.
I watched as he slowly started to smile.
He lifted his shoulders, his eyes no longer grey.
I slipped away unseen. He would make it through another day.
The Knock
A family’s heart was broke today
With a knock upon their door.
They knew what the two men standing there meant.
For their loved one had gone to war.
Short on Time Noon
Noon time hour
Time is running short for this hour
yes, I took a nap to recharge brain power.
Still searching for words…
My muse isn’t participating
which has me worried.
I forgot to say it’s mandatory
To be here for the 24 hour duration
without compensation.
Nothing left behind…
Do you think about suicide? Often?
Everyone does (it). Right?
Artists at least have created something before parting. What is your legacy?
Tell a therapist. Trust a friend. Try not to dive too deep.
Hope. Staves off the temptation to join Robin.
Eternal Nothing.
I feel its grip around my throat,
Death’s cold and grasping hand,
While the soul I once was tied to,
Drifts free far above this land,
The towns stretched out below me,
See no shadow as I pass,
No gust of breeze to prove I’m there,
I do not stir the grass,
Is this the final darkness,
Is this the thing we’d come to fear?
Not a total sense of nothing,
But no-one knowing we are here?
For I beg of night to take me,
I’d prefer to have never been,
Than this eternity of torture,
Where I can see but can’t be seen.
those letters you never send – prompt
write a letter-poem to your favorite poet / writer
perhaps include questions
or metaphors / allusions to their work
Death
Devoid of life: all in his wake.
Evolving us from living things,
Adorning us with angel wings? Or,
Turning the tide from life to death,
Heaving us- brutally, choking our breath?