Honeycomb

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Thank you, The Photo Nomad for the picture.

A sticky, ushering sunset frames the silhouettes
of men and boys, cloaking their exhausted
and hungry bodies.  Shirts hang limply
from their worn hands – dragging
the rich golden sand at their bare feet –
collecting shells and copious fragments of life
washed up and forgotten onto the
grains of twinkling gold that speckle the
the rich shoreline.
Viscose awnings plied to strong timber arms
still billow wearily in the dying winds –
nets and gossamer strands drape
the spears of stilled masts triumphant stakes
away in the shallow distance.
Wading ankle deep in idle chatter,
tired eyes squint to admire the hushed glow
of twilight colours on a dusty, hazy day;
though muted and subdued they herald the dreams
to follow amid the quiet of the sea breeze’s bronze air.

Lilac #Quadrille

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Smother my pulse
in timeless grains of sand,
let its broken glass bedeck
my wrists
where stranded pearls, no longer wise,
once worshiped summer’s heroes.
My lilac demise
is well hidden from winter,
long gone without me –
time is all that is left.

*A Quadrille is a verse consisting of 44 words.

Rhapsody

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Fascinating picture doing the rounds: The black shapes are NOT the camels, the narrow stripes below the shapes are, the black shapes are the shadows of the camels.

Sunset corrals leaking ink
spilled onto
rippling arid scrolls;
hieroglyphs
on hot parchment
like music straddling
the scorching desert –
tall shadows and shifting sand
make a caravan
of notes on canvas.

Dream Like Dali

Picture source: Salvador Dali 1904 – 1989

Majestically striding to the edge of sun baked
sand like an hourglass held up by time,
she became still; her long legs equidistant

man lay heel to toe with a savage sun –
humanity encrusted with parched earth,
it had partially eaten him –

a dried out white dove clung
to an exposed ribcage; a much needed perch
for a wasted observer
tired of flying,
tired of singing,
lost in his search for peace.
Its feathers, etched from
fine, dried clay – were fissure
like veins devoid of faith – baked
outside of death,
badly in need of rest.

Her elongated shadow buried
them both before she knelt on the earth
for water to pour from dainty,
silver rivulets
that ran her body,
which was smooth
and flowing sand

he watched her rise,
striking the sky
with her cool, black silhouette
but on the floor it lay
outstretched – as an amber pool
of honey;
he placed in it his hand
to taste her

immediately, he was quenched, fed.  Arid skin
of dust and clay fell away as did the shell of the dove,
which had replaced his heart –
its wings shattered
into a thousand pieces like baby soft powder
dusting the gritty, sparkling floor

in the breeze, billowing white clouds
conjured a magnificent
topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights
of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes
of beautiful iridescence –
tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace
in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green
and gold …

quill feathers wafted the zircon grains
of the sand, writing new rules,
posturing and reshaping –

beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore
too brittle to walk on, created swank waves
of peacock blues,

and it strutted till a thousand feathers
fell on the sand
to rise again as blood red poppies
that poured in an avalanche from the gaping
mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets –
grown men like babes still fighting
inside their dreams

he tried to pick the wild flowers for her
but barbed, razor wire snagged
his crumbling fingers,
and hidden behind those were children’s faces
pressed against wire mesh
on the shores of green, unpleasant oceans
that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet
of helplessness and hope
each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass

he gripped her waist
but as his reflection caught on her glass bosom
it shattered her hourglass frame

she was released

a thousand more grains of sand
flowed like the salt
of his tears – sprinkled gently
from a watering can’s wise rose
trying to feed the presumption of green
leaves between his toes

his flaking sinews were drawn
to his chest; he wore a small hole
where the dove had nestled –
dust stung his eyes
before his tattered hand rose to form a bridge
that the sun rode across
to join him at his journey’s end

red jewel fish swam ahead of her
in shoals of beating hearts –
riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth
approaching like a whirling dervish;
her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,

and their glinting sunlit flecks
consumed time in their frenzy –
she placed the convergence; a plump,
red heart
within his rib cage,

she was a belly dancer for a while
on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations
prompting creatures with a spin of time
to play music
inside of their shells

her lips were kissed by
one thousand butterflies, and her open palms
let loose a chorus of small white doves;
all of the notes to harmonise man’s discord –
all willing one more time to fly away
in a relentless search for peace and to sing
for another one thousand years –

time enough, she thought, before they’d need
a place to rest