I was there the night
she sang dreams,
when eternity answered
shadows kneeled in
and all sound
deferred to her voice.
She smelled of smiles
sensed in a dark room.
When dawn echoed
through the trees
life became a veil
dancing with the wind,
a whisper I could
taste as she brushed
I was there the night
she sang dreams.
Tonight at dVerse Victoria ask for a poem
which plays with mixed up senses.
we scry the ball,
in its depths;
to gain advantage
and guide our steps.
in the end, as a reward
for our efforts, we find
of who we already are,
or are destined
More of Escher from Margo.
The cottonwoods brought
snow to summer,
I stood in the flurries
as she drove off.
She has left before.
It takes a few days
for her to remember
why she always comes back.
When she returns she will
smile and remind me
holly is the greenest in winter
and cottonwoods snow in summer.
The Truth in Her Eyes
Her eyes have always fascinated me,
all her emotions are found within,
shades of green and blue to denote
mood; come closer, stay away.
One day I caught a glimpse —
deep inside those eyes —
of what she sees
She tries to breathe, feels every molecule
catch in her throat, cling to the walls
of her lungs, as droplets of sea spray
and tears dapple her face.
The gales will not pry her grip
from the lighthouse railing, not until
the last of her strength fades and
the music carried by the wind dies.
He was found in the lower ballroom,
the last bubbles of his breath
adhered to the brass of his horn
like fish eggs to a swaying plant.
dVerse offers up the amazing photography of Leovi
as poetic inspiration.
For this weeks Tuesday Tryouts, Margo asked for a poem about our muse. More specifically, I think she prompted us to ‘describe’ this … creature. Unfortunately, mine is a fickle minx who refuses to maintain appearances, if she submits to being seen at all.
There are still times when I find her
languishing by the liquor cabinet,
convinced words of higher meaning
are to be found in an emptied glass.
More often she dances in shadow,
a diaphanous distraction who plays
at the edges of consciousness, demanding
attention, refusing a point of focus.
Occasionally, when in a generous mood,
she meets me face to face, shares every
breath, flows as blood in the pen
to become ink on a page.
In those times, all others are forgiven.
He waits for her to recover,
hoping she will.
The body is damaged,
but healed, the spirit
lags behind, refusing
to accept a new reality.
She ignores his attentions.
There is no animosity,
He has become as useless
to her as dandelions
to the yard, or sun
to the lighthouse.
for the image prompt at The Mag
It was a cheery enough image,
but not where it led me.
It is a difficult decision,
choosing between the complex
flavors of the house noodles
and the fire of the spicy chicken.
She was the first — a rare beauty
in an east Texas town —
with burring desire and a rebellious
nature. She searched for something
the boys she was surrounded
by could not provide and tired
of me quicker than the fill
of the lo mien subsides, or the sting
of sauce on the tongue dies.
Lately, I order the noodles more,
preferring to savor the layers
of life imbued in each bite.
Occasionally though, there is an
appeal to the heat, no matter
how quickly it fades.
The Saturday post at dVerse asked for
an account of an ‘Asian” experience