Aubade

A  pin drop of doubt
Settled during the night
The breeze heard its whisper
And carried it to ocean depths,
Where it swelled in blue tide,
Rippling bedposts of our sky 


I wake up to find your side cold
In the morning light, and see 
Your mud prints going to the shore 
The wind roars, gales of   
Half-rotten fish tangled in salty nets  
What was a blur is now clear: 
Unapologetic truth


No fear for the unknown,
Nor indecision, in a moment 
Courage comes like a vodka shot  
I grab my oil-slicked boots and jacket
My lips are bruised from kisses, 
Thighs sore, eyes bloodshot tired    
But there is work to be done 
The room is shaping to what it is:
Sturdy ship, facing towards the sun   



Posted for:   Real Toads and D'verse Poets pub - OpenlinkNight - Thanks for the visit ~ 
An aubade is a morning love song or poem about lovers separating at dawn.  It has also been defined as "a song or instrumental composition concerning, accompanying, or evoking daybreak"


picture credit:  here

A burst of fire

                             the morning comes in shades of pink and white
                             lover's touch, you don't want to miss one glance
                             so long your amber eyes are closed, furled tight


                             mute to the wind, as the sea and sun dance
                             on your skin, igniting a voice, perchance
                             to give wings, vigor clay hands, underfoot
                             budding slowly, purple plump, like beetroot


                             you're still wounded, naked, featherless bird
                             with blue painted lips, but underneath soot
                             foaming red wine, rising, fire-spirit stirred

                                  ~0~0~0~0~


                           it started slowly
                           a strand of hair turning indigo
                           a freckled dot on brown cheek


                           then
                           rising rage in splaying colors
                           flare of hands knifing the canvas
                           torrent of cursing words in the air


                           they called her


                           mujer loca (Spanish, a mad woman)
                           Zhaghzhagh (Persian, the chattering of teeth from rage)


                           she was simply
                           an artist
                           at work




Notes:
First Post:   Real toads - Dizain poetry form : 
10 line stanza with Rhyme Scheme: a b a b b c c d c d 
Second Post:   D'verse poets pub:   Logophila


picture credit:   here

On a Friday morning

    

i drain glass of wine
quickly, 
as you tell me change of plans

masking disappointment,
i smile, lifting your spirit,

outside it rains    
road looks long, 
endless hill of battles,
seesaw of expectations versus reality 


tipping sky grey 


outside, two birds fly,      
wingtips of symmetrical feathers, 
embracing rough wind        


unsteadily,
we reach for each other 
    

Posted for :  D'verse Poets Pub:   Balance
and Flash Fiction Friday - Tell a story in 55 words - For the G-man  - Thanks for the visit. 


picture credit:  here

Spice of life

the silky peelings of onions,

crushed cloves of garlic

sizzles the pan of our evening

my treat, you say as your hands

caress the red and green bell peppers,

jalapeno and spice waffling kitchen nook

i smile at your dash of zest

whilst kneading the dough pie, soft and moist

swirling dust in bowl of white ceramic

my hands sugar the air of our

conversation, a dash of chocolate in a mix,

makes you stop and kiss my powdery lips

as olive oil tenders the chicken breasts,

leisurely your hand measures a cup, 

heady brew of herbs and crimson sauces

steaming air envelops oven hearth

as fresh vegetables and flavored meat entwine,

melting butter in crusty french bread

we savor slow cooking time,

the fruits of long companionship: soft, light
as whipped cream over layered English trifle

filling our insides with warming cheer
soon, my lime sprayed apron slips away

as eager hand peppers and seasons the dish

with a flourish, you pour the spicy hot

dish on wide moon platter, asking me casually,

"what do you think?"

grabbing wine glasses, i look at your steady hands,
and with a practiced expression, i say,     

"delicious."

and it still is.

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - OLN - Monday

and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight  - every Tuesday at 3pm EST

I wrote this last year as a prose, inspired by reading through Brian Miller's archives.  After  some editing with the ending, I thought of sharing this as hubby and I are celebrating our personal milestone this weekend.   Cheers ~ 

picture source:   here

on growing roots

                                                   
she tells me in soft lilting voice, 
that these things take time to grow
as i pat the soil neatly, gently around the stalk,
drizzle a bit of water, and  place the pot 
beside my window, where i am sure 
the morning light will strike, brighter than oil-lamp.        


in my child eyes, the seed leaves are gathering strength, 
wind power and soon there will be a tree in my room. 
taking my small hands, she leads me 
to shell-cased windows, overlooking the fields of sugarcane. 


with a steely gaze, she surveys the sloping hills and trees, as 
one familiar with the grooves of the skin,  parting of the limbs, 
sweaty arms in harvest, sweet partake of freshly cut cane on mouth, 
filling stomachs, rooting faith deeply in the sun-baked land.   


her petite frame belies strength of raising five children,
and caring for the plantation families, all sharing the same roots.  
she knew all their names, including their children, grandchildren 
as one who has planted all the stems in the open field.   

my recollection of her is faint now, but i remember
her delicate hands gifting me with more than just 


a pot of mongo seeds 

Posted for Real Toads:  I chose the vintage picture of my maternal grandmother.  She was a sharp and well-traveled woman even in her later years.     


and D'verse Poets Pub:  Poetics - in Schiller's footsteps 

the road

he waits beside car, turquoise sky, in stone-cobbled streets.

drumming hands to Havana song, he wonders if his knocks will be answered.

sun strikes ground in orange haze, crinkling crooner’s voice.          

it's been over 10 years since he left the country, still wrapped in time capsule.  

suddenly rushing footsteps, door opens, 

music welcoming, embracing him.     

   

Posted for Flash Fiction Friday - tell a story in 55 words.   For the G-man.   We enjoyed an office lunch treat yesterday in the open patio, and listened to a 3-man band from Cuba, singing Spanish songs.

Marian and I collaborated on a piece for Real Toads - 1st year Anniversary Celebration.   This is the first stanza of the road:

    Straining to hear
Broken eggshell pieces on white plate of the day,
    drops of leftover rain
scattered leaves on brown feet of the road--
    bouncing from leaf to leaf
where does one find the path on these highways?
    in surround sound--

Please read the entire poem here.  Thanks for the visit.

picture credit:  here

The rivers of life

I want to be


the river
  you


  ink your pen in the morning light
  birthing your thoughts, slumbering sky 


  unfurl in the summer cornfield,
  swaying to windmills and white daffodils


the wind
  you


  trust your wings in the afternoon sun,
  lifting voice, strong and joyful 


  carrying words, of gentle rain and peace 
  stirring currents to sea color and depths       


the leaf
  you

  fold slowly with trembling hands,
  smoothing lines, touching fertile earth  

  press warm lips come evening tide,
  holding all that I am, until I turn to 


  dust  
  

Posted for Poetry Jam:  Rivers of Life
and Real Toads - Bonus Open Link - 
Congrats on the first year anniversary ~  


Happy anniversary also to D'verse Poets Pub 


Thanks for all the support and encouragement ~


picture credit:  here

Yesterday's dreams

                                                          artwork by Jack Vettriano


you gifted me with palette of colors
every brushstroke,  rushing wave  
every curved line,  weeping music 
words quivered from my lips,  
seeping deeply your wine-cupped hands,
eager to stain the white sky


now as i gaze outside the window,
every traffic light changing, falling rain  
every hour passing, wilting red poppy 
words hang precariously on slopes and edges 
of me, sharply descending into white oblivion    
   
     
reluctantly, i wait 



  
Posted for:   The Mag : Yesterday's Dreams by Jack Vettriano
and Poets United ~

Au revoir

                                 french perfume tied by velvet rose            

                                 tear-shaped pearls with sand-papered glow  

                                 mirages   on   desert,    echoes                     

                                 mocking words, turning days hollow         

                                 cheeks sting from unexpected blow         

                                 mouth gapes like a flickering trout                                       

                                 film noir fan,  i'm not,  nor  sallow          

                                 C'est la vie ! i say, chest puffed out 

                              ~0~0~0~

                you talk to me

                                after finishing your french toast 

                                burnt crisp at edges, 

                                like your words

                                while i eat creme brulee

                                slowly, prolonging each bite

                                twisting my au pair skirt,                                                           

                                

                                i don't say anything

                                except to sigh and lick my spoon   

                                we now sound french         

                                to each other

First poem offering is a Huitain or Monk's Stanza Form - For Real Toads Challenge 
and D'verse Poets Pub:   A French Twist for Quatorze Juliet  

Poetry form:  Huitain form poem, also known as The Monk's Stanza
Line length: 8 (French) or 10 (English) syllables 
Rhyme scheme: ababbcbc
Number of lines: 8

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

Summer memories

Do you remember the creek behind our homes
where laughter pelted the guavas and star apples, 
ripe and crunchy in our mouths and billowed bellies,   
throwing stones at frogs croaking in summer heat  
  
                  Do you remember the road trip we gifted us: 
                  golden silence and magical windows we drew,
                  on coconut palms we traced our golden future, 
                  gazing at the sky, endless and blue as your eyes 

Do you remember the garden blooms you plucked,
the last day we exchanged promises, kisses deep
now withered red, like yesterday's harvest grapes     
bottled in wine cellar, labelled memories to keep                    

                 That time is like white sandbar in Pacific Ocean, 
                 which appears and disappears in the sea foam,  
                 we wade to go there, where nothing is waiting,     
                 yet find that everything is waiting, 


                 waiting for us 

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

Thanks for the visit~ 

picture credit:   here

The gentle rain

the rain came this morning

like gentle kiss on a fevered brow

drenching the balcony window 

in dusky light and muted blue 

all through the week, summer heat

from your eyes blistered and cracked my skin,

like a forest fire raging out of control,

wounded bull running down Santo Domingo street

i remembered how sweet your first kiss was,

how soft your hands cupping my cheeks, 

until your addiction for sun blurred the lines,

black tarred the flesh craving for flesh,

flushing down our intimacy into dirty urine stall
  
i held your face, my evening star,    
with a bold marker, i penned the words:
black and white letters,  
crossing all t's, dotting all i's,
drawing height and weight of consequences,
fencing the boundaries to protect me and you. 
pinned atop our heads, we slept spooning the moon

the rain came this morning

like gentle kiss on a fevered brow

drenching the balcony window 

in dusky light and muted blue

Author's Note:   I learned about Boundary Agreement from Elsie of Turtle's Musings.   She is a loving partner of a recovering sex addict and she has bravely shared her story about their journey to healing.  Part of her agreement reads:

• I will absolutely not tolerate any of your previous behavior with online affairs, sexting, cybering, emailing, webcam, sexual forums, or any other type of inappropriate behavior with another woman.  I will file for divorce the moment I find out.

• I will absolutely not tolerate you having any type of physical contact with another woman.  This includes flashing each other, changing in front of each other, dressing up for each other, touching each other – any contact, even if you think it’s harmless like a neck rub or slapping her on her ass and vice versa – is forbidden in our marriage.  Hands Off!  I will file for divorce the moment I find out.

Thanks Elsie for letting me share your story. 

Posted for Real Toads:  Word from Laurie:   Demarcation

and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics :  Whatever the weather

picture credit:  here

Convergence

                                                         Jackson Pollock:  Convergence

unconventional strokes,
bold sweeping lines and curves,
pendulum from the center, stretched to edges
of storm sprayed canvas, 


she peers closely to decipher his name, 
to understand a little of his madness, embers and 
shape of his soul as colors dripped from his hands


freely, as eastern winds sweep blue mountain,    
joyously, as monarch butterflies travel south, 
rebelliously, as the last autumn leaf clings to the branch    


against the rigid rules and structure, his fingers  
smeared orange, yellow, black, blue, red, white, grey, green,
a salve for hands, itching to drown in bottles of vodka and wine 


again and again, he lived in the moment, lone voyager,
untouched by fame and pressure that circles like a vulture,
preying on his doubts, growing mushroom clouds in his mind


she touches the edge of the frame in loving gesture,
she had long lost him to the devil's cup and arms of other women, 
a poor replacement for his muse, who also left him in despair and grief        


now as she walks away, 
she treasures the gift he had given her:   




free spirit 






Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:   What's The Buzz

and Poets United:   Artist:    Jackson Pollock:   He became a leading artist, a pioneer in the Abstract Expressionism movement and is famous for his technique of dripping and pouring paint onto his canvases. He was married to Lee Krasner, also an artist, and was known for his extreme alcoholism.  Pollock died in an alcohol-related car accident in 1956.    

Sand-washed afternoon

under the lemon sun 

even fresh red strawberries 

bruised dark purple under the scorching heat     

i discovered finally

how soft and yielding 

beach sands are under my paper-paled feet,  

how sweet watermelon and cantaloupe slices tasted

as your kisses lingered in the afternoon empty of expectations

plastic cups, filled with fresh water and knotweeds,    

salted our tongues, nibbling crispy chicken wings in disposable plates,                  

  

under big umbrella, wind-swept hair swayed to maple-leafed kite,  

fingers drumming faster and faster to touch the canvas sky  

the untamed grass, sand dunes falling into bamboo mats,     

wild sea alighting on your eyes, sweat running down bare belly               

i collected the smooth stones, pebbled grey and warm corals, 

into an endless necklace, i twined them, 

sea-braced memories and sand-washed poems 

Posted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and D'verse Poets pub:   OpenLinkNight


We had a long weekend holiday as July 1 is our Canada Day.  Thank you for your visits.   


I appreciate them.


picture credit:  here