MOCK TURTLE SOUP
Dancing the edge of a buttercup moon,
tempting eternity with every in-breath
to prove it’s worth in a three cornered room,
I believed
the stars fell across your eyes~
turned inside-out
you were braver than death.
You washed ashore from a tear-troubled sea
wave-thrown and tousled,
you trembled, unsure
-a random-tossed conch from a creature not free.
In the cup of my palm mapped with time
the universe unraveled in a sole grain of sand,
and spinning away in a vortex, I saw
your raw power for sale in some candy store;
forgive me my trespass;
I still wait the out-breath of your evermore.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jun 2011
About this poem:
This poem I wrote after the dissolution of a deep love who sadly lost everything he cared about to a serious drinking problem. I grieved helplessly as a beautiful strong intelligent man lost himself to alcohol. He could not stop, even though he feared losing everything. Hence, the line "turned inside out, you were braver than death." The three-cornered room refers to the body. 'Tempting eternity' was his flirtation with the bottle and the death of his former, stronger self; that gradually crumbled apart...
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CORNSILK FIREWALK
Through vagabond dreams in the carminic marshlands, dark
rebels lead me where I know you
will not be.
You speak in fire
words, paint bridges of imaginings
mansioned tapestries too thin to hold the real:
the green that breathes
the trailing stars
the words I write
and you so crushing-far.
I know the shadowlands from
whence you come, how you came to be
beacon-embers just beyond
the reach of me;
oh, the tales
you tell
in the deep
the spent
whitesheet lingerings
threaded-burning trails across
cool skin and pinkdark places
where
a sudden gasp arises
in the breath of absolute.
Morning flames
break against the blushing walls
that can’t reveal
our firewalk;
the tempest images ensnared
in the webs
of the dreamcatcher
hanging
over my bed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jun 2011
About this poem:
published in the northern New England Review.
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CORNSILK FIREWALK
Through vagabond dreams in the carminic marshlands, dark
rebels lead me
where
I know you
will not be.
You speak in fire
words, paint bridges of imaginings
mansioned tapestries too thin to hold the real:
the green that breathes
the trailing stars
the words I write
and you so crushing-far.
I know the shadowlands from
where you come, how you came to be
beacon-embers just beyond
the reach of me;
oh, the tales
you tell
in the deep
the spent
whitesheet lingerings
threaded-burning trails across
cool skin and pinkdark places
where
a sudden gasp arises
in the breath of absolute.
Morning flames
break against the blushing walls
that can’t reveal
our firewalk;
the tempest-images ensnared
in the web
of the dreamcatcher
hanging
over my bed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jun 2011
About this poem:
published in the northern New England Review
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starfire_girl Poetry (15)