Breath and Bones

Rejigged this a bit. Hope you are all well and coping.

unknown source

We are more than breath and bones,
or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds
our pale faces with heavenly alchemy;
we are combined essences
swirling underneath complex skin
with all of love’s triumphant splendour
placed on our brows.

We are more than breath and bones
with no more taught sinew to soothe
since all mapped outreaches tethered
by distance and timid pasts have been conquered,
and before intruders, unseen, steal west
with their disgrace. We stay low and soft
within this warm, diaphanous wrap;
it is no fair costume this skin
of faux silk.

We are more than breath and bones,
as within each of us lies such vast continents
yet to be stroked, to align
with us under our blue skies.
Synapses crawl to make us,
messaged and volatile, their eager grip
might conquer us still…
we are more than breath and bones,
and we will not be torn asunder.

We are more than breath and bones,
or the thousands of strange shadows
that tend us; each have all but one shade,
and poor imitations lend counterfeit images,
all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss
of your cheek, and there I see us
in every shape and shadow we know.

Burning Both Ends

Unknown source

A
flicker,
a stare,
fires the
column,
bled bare,
by the pale
yellow, violet
flame
as

its gliding wax
grips and its rhythmic drip sets fast,
and not unlike our game.
The Slowness of time
runs with our thoughts down
this vine as I tease the quick
with scorched fingers. And, as
is your want, you navigate me,
and like moths, we
self destruct when we linger.
A stolid breath of air soon releases our
stares, and we flinch in the
flame’s parting sigh;
its sulphuric stench from the quickening
wrench, reminds me of that
stark light – as
sleeping birds hum
and a candlelit morn draws nigh.

Breath and Bones

We are more than breath and bones,
or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds
our pale faces with heavenly alchemy;
we are combined essences
swirling underneath complex skin
with all of love’s triumphant splendour
placed on our brows.

We are more than breath and bones
with no more taught sinew to soothe
since all mapped outreaches tethered
by distance and timid pasts have been conquered,
and before intruders, unseen, steal west
with their disgrace. We stay low and soft
within this warm, diaphanous wrap;
it is no fair costume this skin
of faux silk.

We are more than breath and bones,
as within each of us lies such vast continents
yet to be stroked, to align
with us under our blue skies.
Synapses crawl to make us,
messaged and volatile, their eager grip
might conquer us still…
we are more than breath and bones,
and we will not be torn asunder.

We are more than breath and bones,
or the thousands of strange shadows
that tend us; each have all but one shade,
and poor imitations lend counterfeit images,
all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss
of your cheek, and there I see us
in every shape and shadow we know.

Amarita

amarita.png

Drink up my wine
since these dead and lonely dark nights prevail,
and countless, luminous stars will make you ordinary;
and you will yearn
whilst you struggle outside of me,

especially when caught up in these heaving times,
when precious ills pressed closest

to your undulating
chest, might cause you to succumb
or be fed whilst I am lost –

but you will learn that I am made up of hundreds,
and that you knew who I was –
till I married you –

but, please worship me still
amid cold comforts lost –

pray, come back inside,
leave naivety at the door
and, please beckon it not.

Let us be as it once was –

let us be as it should be.
Let us be love.

To A Flame

moth and hand

Like a moth’s scattering
of night, awakening lights
with wings wildly scratching
the air with fluttering shouts,
you frantically try to capture shadows
while zig zagging the art of confusion.
Steered by signals, light waves
like battering rams of celestial
navigation, singe your soul.

A Quadrille is a 44 word poem.

Titian

Van-Gogh-Starry-Night-over-Rhone

He brushed her curves –
she was soft at the edges,
and he tousled
voluminous, titian hair
with master strokes,
yet a thirst slurped the water jar
and her face would vanish.
He could hardly bear to paint her,
but he did, despite lapsed
time dotted like small flecks of acrylic
on a palette stained with red wine;
interludes of rage and darkness
and heartache’s brittle impasto
would smear the bleak canvas
where her porcelain face should radiate.
A sigh fell over the blue wash of the Rhone
while he watched memories escape
with the wine – he loved her
to the edge, and he would paint it.

Love is on the Brink

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I thought all love was the same,
except maybe with time,
the thicker the blood
the stronger the pain.
Then I thought love was to blame
when your hand,
which was once so gentle
while it held my heart,
became the ledge it teetered on.
I was too frightened to breathe,
afraid to fly from that cold stone
where one push could send me falling
and falling.
So I stopped breathing,
but you were always there
in your various ways,
I could feel you
slamming on my chest,
pounding and pounding –
you would fool me with this love,
massaging until you brought me back,
and like a fool I came back
only to stand with jelly legs
looking down into the abyss of you.
I thought love sometimes ended.

A Little Ditty

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Flaming hearts and dying embers
Burning coals from hell
Telling tales when love remembers
Turn cold from tears that swell

Trodden paths and countless journeys
Always meet dead ends
No pavements lined, save for illusion
Regardless we still wend

Dying smoke and smouldering ashes
Lay naked on our feet
A dearth of kindling adds more torment
We venture forth with deceit

When Light is Absent

flame-1363003_960_720.jpg.

What are you doing
that I can’t be?
What is it occupies your thoughts of me?
Who stands in the light that
blinds equally
both shadows dancing in the flames?

Where can you be now
that I won’t see?
What longings are seeping deliberately?
Who finds them and binds
inextricably
both shadows melting in the flames?

Your fingertip is touching fire,
is that you for me?
When I can no longer feel it, you reach for me,
like the fire atop the tallow’s
intimacy,
both shadows make candlelight’s flames.