I dream of the mountain & its gift of fire

All the light of the Caucasus falls on your body

as though into a little vase of glass, infinite,

where the water transforms itself, by dressing, by singing

at every transparent move of the river.

‘Through the mountains you pass like the breeze’

XVIII  From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’

- Pablo Neruda

I dream of it

like an arrow of wild fragrance

drowning the autumn air

with stains of spring's first awakening

pushing, forming 

it arrives not as raindrops slowly 

trickling but sudden piercing flash 

of thunderstorm

pouring like honey

all the light of the Caucasus falls on your body

dusty golden, you are dawn

unpetaled, blazing 

rising above mountains, weaving the earth

with new watercolors

I dream of it

like symphony's 

unbroken melody

recochetting between our bones 

intimate as thinnest filament

as though into a little vase of glass, infinite,

love, with its immeasurable weight of sea,

is sailing through all the continents

seeking you

seeking me and all my words

fragmented as lost diamonds   

I wait between harvests, spinning

music on this wet earth

I dream of it 

like silkworm cocoons, of beginnings

where the water transforms itself, by dressing, by singing

through every season

flamboyant and effervescent 

on my lips, cinnamon wine

on my skin, burning kisses

I dream of this

under the night sky as it shimmers

electric purple

ringed pregnant with silence 

your every memory stabs the darkness deep that I shiver

at every transparent move of the river.

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight, Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg ~  
Attempted to do a glosa (draft) ~ Join us starting at 3pm EST ~  Thanks for the visit ~

The muse with golden hair

With a brush
you draw graffiti 
on my walls, bubbly & gay
sugar pink, yellow ochre, blue sky- 
i bloom -  spring ! 


~0~0~


Draw me gold
bronze, honey, amber
saffron, any shade but grey
I'll lave your feet with oil & kisses
sweet to drown-

~0~0~


Here's your ink
ribbed of river's gleam
but here's the catch - no nets, nor 
velvet chains to bind me as a bird -
(this lady gets up to go to work) 
& i'll stay -

Painter:    WALASSE TING

(DING XIONGQUAN, 1929-2010)

A Kiss, A Kiss (Lady with Yellow Hair)

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight Hosted by Claudia
& (late entry for) Expanded Cinquian hosted by Tony Maude ~ Five lines of 3,5,7,9 & 3 syllables

Thanks for the visit ~

The other face of Midnight

I don't see her often, a whiff of shadow
in mirrored wall or pale afternoon sun

But come night, she's a secret to be unfolded- 
Something parched, something incomplete

Oozes out, become threads & ink 
Her fingers lift to charcoal the empty page

Blurred by moonlight,  she fetches a storm
underneath the quiet sky & labels it-  Rapture - 

The red moon is all hers, 
There's electricity in her lush ebony hair.

Where the path breaks into different crossing
There she runs to see what's coming next, next-

Come morning, there is body she inhabits. 
Numbers. Efficiency.  A box within a room.

That is what the world wants to see. She complies
by dropping a token in the metal box . Only her belly  

grumbles from this subway train chase 
with its door chimes forever opening & closing -   

Seeds.   How she loves beginnings. Every first
stolen kiss, a stab of memory lingers like dewdrops.

Desire.  The quick inhalation of passion.
Warm wine.  The bleeding of hours, sweet as tangerines.

I sometimes forget how she writes,
what she dreams of, but she lingers faint as I'm right here

By candlelight, she creaks to life,
awash with wild asterisks & stars I couldn't number -  

Her pulse grows stronger,  every season is an awakening
We disappear across the page, a duet of shade & light -   

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Self-portrait by Brian Miller ~ Thanks for the visit ~

grapeling with words

you find

            your words are fire

            without flint or wind

            but with fury & shrill of the night

            how your words growl

            at the touch of another’s urge

            making your skin itch, surfacing nose

you find

             your words are water

             to the curious brow & sweet lips

             striking a cadence undeniably yours like a

             forgotten heartbeat

             your words have colors

             unfactored:   still-born moon, tender-lit sky, dark-grit storm  

             shading your heart, now spilling your guts

you find

            though you can make words

            disappear quickly

            as summer fireflies

            how they slice you open

            blue & shaken

            vulnerable as a root-

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Get Listed:  The Grapeling Way

picture credit:  here

Impossible yet....

Perhaps the tulips

Are like a puma, silent and starving

Under the snowed-in light-

For tonight the twilight

Is cold, forgetful   

Like my hands, finding things to be loved-

I search for your trail among  

newspaper headlines, cut up like

-well-travelled streets-

under the pillows of hospital beds,

-breathing & opening seeds in confusion-

even in the sonnet of a classic poet-

Alas, you are nowhere to be

I stop looking

& let you come

Unbidden, the liquid measure of you

Impossible

Like beauty of a rose   

Photo credit:   ZOOM

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub- Dada Poems with Scissors - 
Words gathered from random poems and newspaper clippings.

Close your eyes and fall

Artist:   Rosie Hardy

the wind rushes to embrace me
like a lover with wings
a kiss-death, softer darkness
to recede, shape and birth  

words that move, dive & splinter,
brushes light and bronze,
now shading crimson & midnight blue--

i fall headlong, unabashed with passion  
towards your voice, whispering my native name
from my gut, deep within, i hear you--

let go of your fears
and inhibitions--
trust that my arms will catch you-- 


Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads  - Sunday's Challenge - We are to take the last line from our previous work and use it as a first line for a new poem.  
and Poets United

The title post is taken from my previous poem On Wings:  Theme is Creativity. 

Before you, a forest speaks your language.

The moon tide is calling.  A flare leaps like a

Signal from a distant mountain top.

Close your eyes and fall. 

At the Italian Cafe

air - scented with red-spicy sauce
clings to leather jacket & gypsy hair.
inhale --    

crisp buttered-bread in dipping oils,
garlic sauteed mushrooms, in-between butterfly
conversations & sipping periwinkle-iced wine.   
listen --

voices of people,
ubiquitous holiday carols,
grinding pepper mill,
crackling spice seeds,
clicking of cutlery,
heels on linoleum tile.
soak -- 

for a moment the thick air. 

bring it home with you.
do not wash it away, 
instead wear it to bed.
stain your sheets, 
alabaster-silk pillows,
your lover. 
kiss --

indigo-inked skin,
slowly as you would savor freshly
ground peppercorn, olives, basil &
spices sprinkled over the pasta noodles -
fiery, orangey-lit, sweat rolling backside - 

serendipity or synchronicity -
words brim from lips.     
& you --

are never the same again. 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight -  Guess who is helping tend the bar ?  Smiles ~

and Real Toads: An Ink-Stained List - Thanks De ~

Thanks for the visit.






picture credit:   here

Like a river

when you arrived,

i didn't know what name to call you 

my eyes were blind,  

yellowed cheeks, a fading blue star        

your touch was 

a cold crystal grape in winter,

but i knew you like the roots

suddenly growing on my feet

arching to taste your skin,  

unripe mango, salted with earth 

i see your face, bright as the sun 

stirring my blood, river deep   

as i write my verse, 

untie my bow and cut my fears 

let me drift towards your voice,

warm red wine, storm-washed shore   

you have searched for me 

for the longest time  

tell me now:  

i am yours 

~0~0   The second part is my offering for Flash Fiction Friday  (55 words) for G-Man    ~0~0

puffy red-rimmed eyes,
clothes, all black, her favorite color
telling me her daughter’s father passed away
yesterday


   lingering cancer  
           wife and 2 young children    
                  funeral  is this Saturday 


her adult daughter had quietly received news. 
he had left them years ago, when she was 


  doe-eyed lass
          blissfully naïve,
                 and pregnant. 
  
forgiveness came like a river.



Posted for :  D'verse Poets Pub:   Ars Poetica :  Poems about Poetry
and Flash Fiction Friday :  Tell a story in 55 words.  Welcome back G-Man ~ Based on a conversation with my co-worker this morning.


picture credit:   here

Glass and lavender

in this land 
of maple trees, i am a

sugar cane harvested in summer 

stripped of roots and leaves, my tongue 
twisted   as   you   blow   pipe   my   ears 

give me your lips, open your thighs, 

come  to   me  like  a   thunderstorm 

pen drips of molasses, darkening spoon on white plate 

rippling the rock garden, raked into stillness by monks 

how   well   you  cleave  me,  my  wind   whisperer, 

i thought i was made of hollow bowl, seedless grey,  

but i am young again in mouth-blown Reidel glass 

   flowing ice wine, soft lavender on your palms,      

stem bent listening to the  

    

sea and sun 

Posted for Imaginary Garden of Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub:   OpenLinkNight 


picture credit:  here

Windswept

                                                                 @Margaret Bednar


i am windswept for words
in these long sun-baked nights


sometimes i stand, immobile as moai* 
on Easter Island, lost-angst lover


i throat sing in my bid to find you, 
pulsing click-chunk-click, galloping the field, 


until the emerald sea whispers to me  
Come and be with me  


silky mane and forelock flows
as i hurl myself over the white edge,  


your hand urges a tumult run, wild grains on hooves,   
until all i see is blaze marking on my nose     


there is no safety net when i free-fall
you are either a ball of fire or silent stone falling    


i choose with my eyes closed 
as the wind lifts my wingspan on my descent   




Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Margaret Bednar
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Logophila 

* Large stone statues made of volcanic ash in Easter Island

Searching for you

veil  
covers 
face, empty
of verses, words
my fingers search their angles, edges, curves


black kohl eyes close, imagining your touch
unsieved grape juice,
swirling wine
heady
drop 


lips    
passion 
burst of spring
flowering   red   
torching pen, I listen to your breathing    

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads 

Poetry form:  Tetractys, a poetic form invented by Ray Stebbing, consists of at least 5 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 syllables (total of 20). Tetractys can be written with more than one verse, but must follow suit with an inverted syllable count.   For Triple Tetractys: the pattern is:  1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 10.   

It's a long weekend here in Canada.   Thanks for your visits and smiles.

Seeds

Here in the farm house, they lie  

ashen cold, dreaming of cherry trees

and plum fruits in summer fest, sweet sap

to rapture the bees and bloom almond trees

Here in the seed shop, they curl 

in their shells for the turn of tide

or the break of dawn, withered dry, 

scentless, dandelions dust in the field 

Here in my hands, they drink the rain
deeply inhaling the river bed, dappled sun     
until their eyes open, a sleeping forest 

no more, gifting me a thousand words 

Post and Inspiration:    The Seed Shop by Muriel Stuart

Posted for:   OpenLinkNight of Imaginary Garden with Real Toads
and D'verse Poets Pub, every Tuesday

We are having a bright spring day, and all the shops here are selling flowers and seeds.  
Thanks for the visits and smiles ~

The moon

i draw my words
in your arms each night
sometimes the verse knots  

silver    strands  in  your  hair
sometimes the  phrases disappear
under  the  grooves  of  your cheeks
sometimes the  lines fold under the back
 of your knees or the arch of your foot
oftentimes  the   letters freely  fall
black  sea  pearls  on  your   hands


raw,     unpolished,     unmetered


your fingers touch coarse  edges 
inhaling red sea  and  oak forest 

  moon comes alive on your skin   


i write again
  

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Open Link Night

Doors open every Tuesday starting at 3pm EST.   Thanks for the visits and smiles.     

picture credit: here 

Greatest fear

                                                                                       

crimson 

blood stains

running down thighs

nausea  rising dry  throat

shaking hands holding belly

lost  in  prayer  as  sky  opens 

to spew and belch her sacrifice

heaving shoulders, she holds

broken shell in silent agony

in cold washroom, alone, 

she   confronts   her

greatest fear:  

barren 

                                                                                          image: djajakarta

Posted for The Mag 112 :    From the writer's point of view, my greatest fear is to lose my muse.  Sharing a personal experience as this month, we celebrate the birthdays and milestones of my two children.   Happy Easter ~   

Shared with Poets United

Muse

Your words washed over me

Like ice wine, sweeter than

Plum nectar with a tinge of

Tropical mango and lycee 

I became drunk with every

Grape drop, cold crystal on my lips

I didn’t noticed the dark shadow 

Knocking at my door at 12:01 am.

He smelled your rage in my hair,
The earth on my olive skin,  


Autumn labour of purple feet.

He left in despair, hands empty. 

I took my pen, and started writing.  

Process Notes:   Inspiration from Rumi's poetry:

Any soul that drank the nectar of your passion was lifted.

From that water of life he is in a state of elation.

Death came, smelled me, and sensed your fragrance instead.

From then on, death lost all hope of me.

Today is the last day for Few Miles Haiku Challenge I have participated for February. I want to thank my friends who have visited and commented in my other blog.   I have completed 29 haiku in 29 days. Thanks for your support and comments.        


Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - OpenLinkNight - Monday and
D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday at 3pm EST.
Shared with One Single Impression:   Muse


picture credit:  here  

The pen

I am red violet grapes staked on a vine,      
Deathly still as a frozen lake in winter,
Wrapped in my tight bindings, when all at once

A hand snatches my torso and shoulders
In one fluid movement, I bend to scrape and tear
The parched skin spread out on the table top

But I can't sink my teeth and lave the tender flesh
Hollowed words, stale emotions, clips my tongue  
Impotent like a eunuch, a useless sword 

Hands strangle my neck in desperation
Pressing veins and muscles, I coil and uncoil
Until musky wood crackles my tongue,

Slowly a drop of ice wine, a phrase leaps into air
Roaring to the thundering sound, I split open and fly

Into the freeway, faster and faster the speedometer
Sprints across the boulders, over the mountain lines
Under the river stones, racing the wind, racing

Until all the detours and side roads are dotted
Until all the intersections and bridges are crossed

Slowly, slowly, lips warm and thoughtful
Tap my back, kneading it gently after the furious pace
I close my eyes in exhaustion, sweaty with inkblots

A hand sets me down on my side, smoothing away
Ruffled lines and blunt edges, words on the page ignite 
Fire in my belly, uncapped, I listen to tip-tapping-clicks          

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - OpenLinkNight - Monday

and D'verse Poets Pub- Open Link Night, every Tuesday at 3 pm.  

This writing exercise was inspired by The object is Poetics - hosted by Mark Kerstetter.

"I would like to say: our aim is to make the object speak, but we know that is impossible. In the end it is we who speak. Language is always ours, and is of primary importance in our relationships to the world and to each other. And while poetic language is surely one of the most beautiful justifications of human utterance, our version of birdsong, our object is not to be enamored of our own beauty, but to find the truest, most respectful words for that thing. That is the object of our poetics today."  Still a challenge I am working on.

picture credit:   here