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.

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.

Loved

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The first time,
you lay before me as magnificence –

the stars and the moon
were the clothes you wore –
a gift to my blackest of nights.

And while in your arms, I raced with you
through sun and sky, and as the earth
turned only to feel your heartbeat,

 I swear, I trembled when I felt it too.

You had no edges or centre – you
were love, and I trembled.

And I miss you.

 

Erosion

mamu“Scientists estimate that 150-200 species of plant, insect, bird and mammal become extinct every 24 hours. This is nearly 1,000 times the “natural” or “background” rate and, say many biologists, is greater than anything the world has experienced since the vanishing of the dinosaurs nearly 65m years ago.”

Is our sole purpose
to contribute
to the epic verse
of the universe?
Or to document
in written, raw emotion
like stepping on
emeralds in the sand?
My dreams harden,
and sparkle
inside of geodes’ imaginations.
With the right mix of erosion and stress
earth’s natural sandstone
of arches and columns,
come into their own,

also eroded by tears
and mammoth tusks and hard shoulders;
rocks rubbed to a fine polish
stand mile high,
and
of long ago,
A time unknown
to our bare feet, till
we, the intruders,
came and made them
lost.
History will repeat
itself –
and extinction’s epitaphs
will be made.
But slow the pace of this
manic and unnecessary, beating drum.
Survival and intellect,
tribes and competition,
greed and capitalism,
humanity’s neo morals.
We are all a part,
we are the rhythm,
But without a heart
(Ecosystem)
We are nothing.

Cat’s Orb ~ Quadrille

Cat's Orb.jpg

Whilst sprawled
like arching, aching shadows
thrown over us,
we have become static and unresponsive
like cold, unfeeling surfaces
when days become just habit.
We spread like blackened dustsheets
to catch drips of light
that might show
the chaos happening inside this tiny
universe.

 

A quadrille is a 44 word poem.

 

Another Black Hole

Black Whole Poem

Pout your soul
when standing back to back
in darkness,
form that barricade
so the universe is hidden light –
the adhesive
that blinds, tears and rips
through the hair cracks of
all faith’s hypocrisy.
And all for naught since the universe
is governed by laws of science
which give the probability
of so many possible states,
there is no room for a creator;
unglued belief and cries of conscience
masked with relief come unstuck
from its black pitch –
and a stampede of high frequency
causes the Doppler effect.

Project Bees: A Milky way

image: Pigsels

A gentle buttercup’s shining gift
clings to the ceiling of my chin,
lighting it up; igniting once again
fragile dreams of a young mind
with such a tiny fire – minute,
but as golden as the sun’s aureole
of burning fire.
I wanted more suns, more planets,
more chances and more hope outside
of my back yard and the gentle, wispy
tendrils of our Milky Way.

I want more than to see the slow weighty
drip of bees in their search above
the green inky nibs of grass and bare stems
scavenging for tiny morsels of nectar;
visions of their bare legs, blind like steel rims,
coming and going, until they have almost vanished
from wildernesses everywhere – the wilderness

beyond washed up cups and plates, ironically adorned
with designer berries and rare
wildflowers; together with the bees,
our own are rapidly disappearing.
From behind sterile kitchen windows,
I imagine a phantom paradise, a forgiving
universe –

tiny planetary nebulae: silky soft blues
of Nigella – wrapped in silken veiled
threads – the gaseous halos that hide
her modesty inside a constellation of mixed
blushes of red primrose, blinding, white
light daisies and swirling lavender
forget me nots with singed yellow
starburst centres –

feathery fireworks pinned to deep
inky blue skies and purple hazed clouds
of Globe Gilia, ignited by Indian Blanket’s
luscious rouged pinwheels; fiery,
and tempestuous molecular clouds
of maroon red clover in colonies
of Musk Orchids’ subtle shades of soft
outer edge to tame the wars set alight
inside the firmaments of an abandoned
circular soil patch –
its circumference an orbit of neglect,
but nascent.

Baby Blue Eyes and Blue Sage – sea
of a tranquil moon’s clustered star
formation will surround flaming
burnt ochre Fox Cubs – spikes
of their brilliance reach for us in stark,
vivid long arms to fingertips’ casual touch;
white noise shrieks from their centre –
shouting life.

California Bluebell and Chinese
Forget-me-not join hands to form
new constellations, tossing flaming
titian hair against its sky; new and exciting
join the dots on the blue black felted boards,
playtime of our children’s children creating
a sky full of new ploughs or even dragons.

Orange Cosmos of Sulpureus their heads
of daubing yellow to sea spun corals burn
ornately. Supernovae remnants; remains
rain down in tiny iris-like flowers of many rainbow
colours – pink, yellow, purple, blue, white
A whirlpool of flare stars, contradictions
and swirls mill around fluffy pink red giants.

Violet mauves and tangerines bleed
into the whites of tall tubular guards,
with golden throats. Clusters of Godetia’s
satiny pink and magenta’s splotched petals
form the soft ridges of my daystar’s fiery
accompaniment burning outwards
to meet the cooler buttercup yellows of
simple wildflowers and timid flames
of dreams.

On hazy summer days tall lupins
will direct the traffic of bees that will come,
and come again and remember that they can fly
as near to my sun without fearful
scorched glances from a flame haired
temptress – a beacon in a circle of hope
for a future.

In winter she will still be loved
but missed until the mistress of such
unveils and vanishes right before our eyes
but not for a while, not until summer squeezes
dry these last few rainy days.

In a lack lustre centre of sombre, ruddy
black clay – the antithesis to my vision lays
in the perimeter of drizzle welling up
inside this fan fiction death star,
dreary rainwater produces ominous shadows
in dark wavering reflections –
punctuated with ice pick rain drops
disturbing silhouettes already snagged –
they are caught on brambles before they are
are even sewn

~ but for now I can still dream ~

of new rain –
deep red from the blood of Mars,
rains from the lilac storms
bombarding the shaded evenings of Pluto –
swept with perfumed gypsum –
the sprinkles of planetary rings.
Multi-coloured auras soften barbed
swatches of crowns among
sunflowers and honey rich dandelions –
aglow, incandescent guardians – incense sticks
lit with scorching rage to effuse
sweet smells while camomile and chicory
loosen the hinges of lost tastes and losing
battles to restore our deprived senses.

A Woodcock’s magnificent
hallowed call pierces this universe
dream, seeping through the heaven’s heavy
heave of tri colour combinations
in the foliage surrounding and protecting
our new life, increasing the chances
of a new found hopeful existence
amid celestial heads of blue cornflowers,
the beaming bright yellow and red charms
of wild poppies – all to tantalise
the bees – oblivious to the importance
of their function and place in our lives –
helping to create new life, wherever
that may be.