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.

You

                Are my vowels & consonants

                                Growing in the index of my fingers &

                                (Careless) tip of tongue as I pen

                                With/in parameters & out/er margins-

                                You roll and colour 

                                Every metaphor & simile

                                You cup, measure and fill

                                The cheeks of my verses

                                The zing in stanzas, stress in meters 

                                You are the curl of my (perfect) font

                                Dash in my every-thing & un-finished thoughts 

                                The comma in epilogue, next & always -

   

                                You candle-burn my pages - 
                                And even though you mess me up with conjugations,
                                The words always lead me back to

         
                                                                                     you 

                                                    

                                   

Posted for OpenLinkNight of D'verse Poets Pub ~  Link up and join the fun starting Tuesday 3pm EST ~ Happy Hearts Day ~ 

picture credit:   here

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

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

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

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 ~

Native heart

                                                                                                

       There are words that

    Bloom from your lips

      Follows not the arc of the sun

          But the curve of your hips

             There are verses needing no sub-titles

                Strung with passion stained fingers        

                  They roll from the tongue 

               

                   In heavy guttural sounds,

                    Primal echoes to your ears

                You close your eyes

             Imagining the stormy sea

          The raindrops drenching your skin

       You are swept in the tide  

   In fragments, in pieces

   You don’t put together

      In one coherent stanza     

         But leave it to seed

           Nourishing native heart

Posted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads- OpenLinkNight - Monday 
and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday at 3 pm


I am participating in the National Poetry Writing Month in my other blog.   Thanks for the visit.


picture credit:  http://gildam.tumblr.com/

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