December 2011
End of the Vale
Jo-Anne
grenade
sentinel
galleria vitae
December's Hiss
The Immortals
Buttercupped
When the First Winds Came
as long as they're allowed
End of the Vale
The injustice burnt
her soul of its fragile faith.
Beliefs lay like shards of soured light
awaiting lips
to pick them up again.
From the grey walls of morning
hymns rose and fell through the sleeves of the wind.
Rain conversed with empty cups
with torn porous cloaks of tattered dream.
Rain convened with thatch and tin
with upturned eyes and vacant downturned hearts.
From the brackish veil of evening’s light
tears dried on their ancestor’s prayers.
Jo-Anne
This rain seemed to punish,
striking down the wheat,
shredding the blossoms of cherry and pear,
painting the hillsides with coppery snakes.
knuckles clenched,
scraping,
dragging, the ground,
mauling,
runnels
inundating the land.
I thought of Jo-Anne
and the bruises in these clouds,
and how long she endured
the storms of that man...
the insanity he leveled,
knuckles clenched,
scraping,
dragging the ground,
mauling,
runnels
of blood in her helpless hopeful eyes.
grenade
you burst inside me
a grenade shredding
my imagined perfections
my illusions of you
the walls of me roared
deadened screams - insanities of silence
disbelief necrotizing - stunning
its barbs shuddering deep in my veins
we lie intact behind frames dulled glass
ghosts embracing at the baggage claim
our skin bronzed for lost tomorrows
a breeze weaving starlight in our eyes
Blind Art, © Johan Rajpillay
sentinel
heron stand
coils wound
impeccable statues
rigid - a sentinel poised
these waters brackish, flaccid
an economy of aquatic arousal
content with the pity fuck of stars
this arrogant morning
brooding, boorish
a mid-day piss of flat pedestrian ale
Aaron came home from Fallujah
to a cheating wife
to a country lost in greed and denial
Aaron stood
coils wound
a sentinel poised
and he cried.
galleria vitae
at the edges we bleed
where its safe to crop and nothing shows
where you fold me over the frame.
our lives fill the halls
on the floors and on the walls
stacked and sorted by season and mood
an expanse of parties
galas of fuchsia and topaz blues
gardens of May, canapés, and chilled Chardonnay
little bundles of sun
bouquets of baby breath whispering
riddles of bliss in diaper free joy
they linger in the corners
in vague pastel secrets
innuendos of lavender and Chanel
while the arsenals set
vivid violets smeared with Pamplona reds
deadly stories with enigmatic smiles.
December Hiss
The sun slipped down
a molten chalice into deep red wine,
Snow White’s lost wintery kiss
through a mantle of arthritic trees.
There is a barrenness now, a void,
as if all we could become
were lost with that waning light,
as if faith were but a muttering
made with a starling’s broken wings.
Autumn Fan, © Lynda Nichols
The Immortals
I had forgotten
that I have had immortal thoughts,
that my lungs were impervious bellows
that my hair had luster
that my bones would never complain.
I had forgotten
how freshly turned soil
can smell like copulation.
I had forgotten to forget
the scent of you
clinging to my fingers, my clothes
how your lungs were impervious bellows
that your bones would never complain.
Buttercupped
Skin stalled… stunned
frightened by the fever of you,
the spell in your breath,
the quiver of your kneading lips.
I inhaled you as a buttercup,
full - ripe and yellow,
your pollen flooding my face with feral dreams.
I faltered…
…for a moment,
then drove you riotous
wailing, grinning to the madness of bees.
When the First Winds Came
When the first winds came,
their crystal fingers prying
eerily pulling at the eaves,
preening my hair with its thousand beaks,
racing down my shirt
like a gust of crushed ice -
I was thinking of chalk, of Hopscotch and Jacks.
When my skin tightened,
my fingertips shiny, waxy, deadened…
the cold seeping, rising through shoes,
pulling my eye to the tepid tea of the sun -
I was thinking of tulips,
how they cup and confer with the daydreams of light.
When the oak clattered like dice,
their bony digits dancing,
arthritic claws, naked…
scratching like cripples at the rigor-gray sky -
I was thinking of the syrup on your lips
and how we found beauty in these barren days…
when the first winds came.
as long as they’re allowed
On tender light we’ll rise
before the honeysuckle can yawn
or the mists know they are naked.
I’ll kiss you
as the shadows say goodbye to these rocks,
moist and lingering -
as long as they’re allowed.
On tender light we’ll rise
to a haunting nightingale’s cries
two whispers intertwining
in the violet of the sheets,
moist and lingering
as long as they’re allowed.
Image - Violet Dawn © Jarerd Helligso