One hundred
twenty eight beats
per minute,
beginning like rain
settling on a tenement roof
from a passing storm.
The noise rides a swell
to overtake the edge of
docile music
and crescendos-
then wittily settles in between
the pacing of a brisk walk.
After forty breaths that
fumble hand-over-hand to
scale keys to a resonant finish,
such sounds decay, in imitation
of distant leaves rustling
in the last gasp
of a gale.
Cling to dawning’s drape, as hails the sun’s
revealing rays, a slow ascent, night is undone.
Wringing in, as rainfall on September flowers
belongs the day, as soaking unseen bowers-
hallowed, hidden dens from branching gables,
place of passion’s secrets –Jana’s cradle.
Then, in reflecting off one lover’s eyes,
light that signal darkness’s demise
screams the sounds, if they were voiced and free,
subsume this moment – come, belong to me.
to those that fly by,
-the dragonflies and cranes-
it is a habitat just like another,
albeit enclosed,
lying just beyond
the cattail marsh
and beneath the mimosa branches,
shallow pond water
collects the run-off
from the adjacent country.
and with no means to drain
the scum,
-covers in-
while the incandescent sun
glows green,
and phosphorescent
blooms interwreathed,
hide the carrion
and bottom dwellers.
Exact from me with whispers rapt and low,
the pace of conjugate contentious sway
into one another’s concert play.
The night reveals a space to deepen, slow
in the rush, the fierce becomes the calm.
Would that I could seal our lover’s sighs
grasping at the moon in starfilled skies,
interjecting sweet familiar psalms
and upon the hallowed, moistened ground,
love and passion fallow, for a time.
Yet the sounds of poesy and rhyme
call out to the blades gone pressing down
and the words that seem to fail in cue
wrap us in the dawn’s evolving dew.
NaPoWriMo 2013 Day 17
Slightly late, but hey, sonnets aren’t simple…
I’ll set out to find a chair, one that plushly – sitting there-
holds the moments that we share in a room otherwise bare.
One where lounging legs are strewn over armrests- fabric-sewn-
a soft and tufted, royal throne, this chair I dream of…want to own.
A fitting place to read a book over chores we once forsook:
Laundry, cleaning, or to look for recipes you meant to cook.
Would you like to find this seat, where love could coo, thus replete
with passion’s coverlet so sweet – an unobtrusive place to meet?
A cozy, spacious sincere stand, neither is austere nor grand
a sanctum with no harsh demands for time and memories – some unplanned.
Such as that I wish to see- not a fancy couch/settee-
Simply placed, for you and me, a place to live and laugh and be.
In waning moments
the wind blows cold.
The world doesn’t
golden
or smile
until the sun,
whispering,
kisses your forehead
-beckoning you to rise-
with her intention
of warmth.
Come sweet faint, addicting slumber
keep the counting mind at bay,
let the forty sheep outnumber
all the things in matter’s way.
When a lonely darkness centers,
and a shadowed figure haunts
sole encounters in the winters
of the least desires and wants.
Darling fancy over fences,
traverse over fields of green.
Turn your face and so commences
dreams both perfect and serene.
Planting violets and white clover
on the paths you walk in sleep.
Share with me your dream world over
here, no promises to keep-
Interlaced with loving fingers
time with one to reign supreme,
as we touch, our pursuit lingers
in the warmth and glow of dreams.
Underneath the ivy grows,
waving in the summer scene
a rose bush, with its yellow groves
brightening a wall of green.
Branches mingle, mix and blend,
a lovely bouquet forms amid
the ivy vines and thorny stand,
a conchord, growing lovers bed.
One does not concede the other,
twirling round each one’s advance,
rooted, wrapped, and then recovered,
to climax in a maddening dance.
Twisting green, with bloom and thorns
a spooning aftermath adorns.
ubiquitous features,
interconnected, yet
singular during the moment
in their purpose.
the philtrum
is the vertical groove on the
median line of
her upper lip, slightly raised
in anticipation of another’s caress.
the joint between the nasal bones at the bridge
of the nose is called the nasion.
a union of features.
the glabella is the smooth
prominance
of her forehead between the eyebrows,
gently tensed before ascent.
but, the eyes,
the green shimmer in her eyes
give her away
each and every time.
is passion
jagged and obtuse,
or egg-shaped and small?
many thousands will think
and ask together.
we have a frantic need to know this.
while existing in burning air and suffocating space
spalling red blood tears
between each moment of sweetness
bits and pieces starting as wax, not honey.
it does not pour or flow,
rather builds and solidifies as stone
clashing with the surrounding sediment
to sharpened edges:
a gem that scars and heals.
that’s what love never tells you.
Taps and Ratamacues 