Paper doll

                                                                    
                                                                          image by Francesca Woodman


my hands mock  
images brimming in my head 
raw and bare earth 


my breasts betray 
passion surging in my limbs
consuming, black blur  


my eyes flicker  
like paper doll, stripped empty
unworthy of you


i hurl the shell of me,
fragile as glass, but cold as stone  
to sky window 


please, 
remember my face 

Posted for The Mag 130 :   Francesca Woodman was a young American photographer whose work was produced between 1972 and 1981. Despite the fact that she was working for only a short period, Woodman has, over the past 30 years, gained a reputation as one of the most important names in photography.  She committed suicide at age 22. 

The beautiful sadness

muted clouds on bay
gold leaves all astray 
unbidden, you slay
words so soft, still 

red blooms have faded
as long years raided   
chest of seeds, naked 

longing to spill

sea of knowing you
sky of bitter blue  
my eyes awake, true
i learn to write

of missing spaces
room, empty of place, 
scentless, my lips trace

you, in moonlight 

                                                   
            
Posted for:   D'verse Poets:  The Beautiful Sadness

and Real Toads:  Poetry form is Cyhydedd Hir.  I have used this pattern:
x x x x A
x x x x A
x x x x A 
x x x B 





The Kiss by Theodore Gericault
c. 1822
Sepia wash and charcoal on paper, 203 x 368 mm
Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid
Picture credit:   WikiPaintings.org 

A labor of love

         frame pictures in shoe box were 6 years dusty
         a lifetime has leaped from carefree smiles to today,
         that suddenly the dam burst, frothing of words
         he never knew: sadness, angst, love uprooted so quickly

he wrote feverishly - pages upon pages,
the birthing easy, like a quick sprint to paper mill,
muscles relaxed,  breathing easy, then fast 
as release came,  furious like raging bull

         charging the streets, torrential flood of youth's passion
         he pumped his muscles until it was firm and unyielding
         of his journey, words became sharper and shades deeper,   
         only now, the birthing became more and more labored 

it felt like a sharp knife in his chest, a stake deepening,   
claws knotting his veins with each tug and pull, 
driving him crazy in the lonely hours of night,  
so after months of writing,  he decided to 
stop -

          let the words 
          sway in quiet contemplation, like the sea 
          waiting for the ship to plumb its depths,     
          bowstring curled still in lover's fingers,       
          unknowing when

they will meet again     

Posted for the OpenLinkNight of Real Toads (Monday) and D'verse Poets Pub (Tuesday).

My son and I wrote poetry at about the same time last year, but he has stopped writing, while I have continued.       

picture credit:   here

At the dinner table

                                                   A Dinner Table at Night, 1884, John Singer Sargent

she slowly runs her finger on the glass rim,
red wine smoulders on tongue, 
washing away the lamb dish, served on silver platter

should she take coffee? 

she peers at her companion, black and white tie
a study of political correctness and wealth
glimmering the room in rose madder and gold     

her black satin dress is now heavy on thighs
maybe a cold dessert pie will cool her off,
as his voice rose in disparaging, sharp clicks 

she nods slowly, pale and poised as an arrow,
while looking at the silvery lamp
it needs more polish, maybe 2 more vigorous rubbing,
she mentally muses,  while checking the dip of her decolletage       

clock ticks so loudly  
as the conversation meanders on Madame X scandal       



Written for The Mag - Thanks for the visit ~

Words at the tip of my tongue

at the tip of my tongue,
it dances slowly, 
awakening spring bud, 
unfurling pink leaf


it dances slowly
ballerina on tiptoes
unfurling pink leaf 
stretches arms wide open 


ballerina on tiptoes 
like a cocktail glass,
stretches arms wide open
leaps in mid-air, lingering    


like a shaken cocktail,   
awakening taste buds,
to leap in mid-air, then lingers      
at the tip of my tongue

~0~0~0~0~0~0~ 

I prefer the verb        
          to the noun
                when I am
                     with you


                        dripping  
        
                    so slowly
       
               or faster
       as I want to
 or moving up
and     down


as I like to


sweating
cradling hips       
gripping  arms


writhing to music   


at mid-point, adding dashes--


and punctuation points ! !, ending with a sigh~




First post:   D'verse Poets Pub - Pantoum form
Second post:   Flash Fiction Friday -for the G-man - Tell a story in 55 words ~
Shared with Poetry Jam - Verbs    


picture credit:  here