Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

 Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte

you wrote a letter

and pinned it on the board

forgotten

you scribbled sweet nothings 

across pamphelt and left it 

dangling      

you hid the truth under the 

flowing strokes, obscure lines 

in the journal of us

your words hammered  

until they were rubber bands, 

wounding tight around my chest

so don't look for me 

in the wooden panels of the room,

pining for the ship to anchor us    

i am outside, 

stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots,

and dancing with the wind  

                                           Copy Right © 2012 Hannah Gosselin ~ Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

                                                                    
Posted for:   The Mag 121
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Hannah Gosselin  

Of green apples and old bike

sun creeps like a trickster's clock on wall



to get up now or fold under white sheets
to break the eggs with a fork or boil them in water   
to cut the blooming roses or let them fall like rosary beads 


it besets her that simple things 
seem like shaking the trees for just a leaf  
(knocking heads is probably more apt) 

to push or pull the doors
to walk to the park or skiphotch to wheat field,         
she jogs her memory of what happened last night 




torrential rain lashing her skin,
fear snapping on heels like demented dogs    
while running headlong into the city smog   



she is lost in the river tide, 
adrift in choices that roots her feet while others fly
(her son buys a second hand bicycle 
because it's dirt cheap than paying for a car)  


until a hand settles firmly on her arm



scent of pine cones and green apples
warm as honeysuckle in springbed,   
kisses cheek in gentle whisper 


it is going to be alright

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:  A word with Laurie:   Dementia/Insanity
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   It's a matter of Choice

Picture credit:   here 

Insignificant

drop by drop
fading against the midnight sun 


grey to white
melting peacock feathers into ashen dust  


red lined lips
chewing the bitter wood


emptiness
licking the salted wounds on breasts 


long tapered hands
turning into knives and scissor blades


if i drink the bottle of mercury 
will your needle eyes move to the right ?



a strange thing 
i have become in your house full of mirrors       



time is irrelevant 
if it breaks the river heart into a thousand stones 


darkness is more than just a moonless night
if i am now  


an insignificant dot in your palm




"“One person's craziness is another person's reality.” 
― Tim Burton 


Posted for Poets United:   Eccentric : Congrats on the 100th prompt post ~
and D'verse Poets Pub:    Where in the world?   :   Thanks for the visit.

picture credit:   here

Like Mexico

you look like Mexico, 
                              familiar old soul
                    
sitting in the silhouette of sunset
gazelle eyes, lips inked red as your corset   
lingering notes from flamenco guitar
you play a thousand times, by the bar

each sharp crescendo, each staccato beat, 
crimson, emerald and indigo bursting heat
fireworks, heady like tequila lime and salt    
i drink like i don't care until 
                               i am full of thunder 

you smell like Mexico,
                               familiar old soul

roads under our wheels, sand everywhere
tequila lime, salt, beer on breath
summer heat blowing from the border,
Mexico gets into my head,  and suddenly

you are more than just a girl in my arms
making me wish for more than just this road trip,
when i see a shooting star
in the pale moonlight, I kiss you hard     

you taste like Mexico, 
                               familiar old soul 

my hands reach for you as I come alive

    


Guitar and original music composition of Herotomost of Mexican Radio * ~ Thanks Corey ~  





Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - OpenLinkNight - Monday
and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight  - Tuesday

Working for a price

at the studio


i switch the stage lights to
capture the sun falling on the model,
$ 8000 Birkin handbag on her feet   


she awaits patiently for my time,
unlike the files on my desk with a 
RUSH stamped,  


i search for numerical beauty of her back, 
consistency and safety pins on hair,
and hint of summer underneath her corset,


but it is the eyes I am aiming for,
deep, full of emotional connections,
i strip away the clothes and make up


to figure out the shape of the face, bare beauty,
a year from now, maybe another wrinkle or line,
but nothing like depression drugs or cancer 
(the file will be DECLINED) 


my fingers frame the picture i want,
the angle to capture the light behind, 
like a buyer checking an auction find, carefully


subtract the claims from the payments
check the trends, set minimum threshold, LOWest price, 
before sales negotiations begin, because there is NUMBer 


to be negotiated, nothing, not even love
is fixed and constant, forever is an ILLUSION, 
(it exists only in my poetic head) 


like my polariod camera, catching fluid moments
into fixed frames for sale, for artistic expression, 
but always a showcase to the HIGHest bidder   


because there is a price 
to pay for something that you want 


or not  


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Workin' For It - I should have posted this in my other blog but I want to write without fearing a backlash from my (real world) friends and workmates.  Thanks for the visit ~ 


Picture post and inspiration from Photographer Paolo Roversi