December 2012

	December 2012 Continental Drift Bare Necessities When the Westerlies Come Hanukkah in Gaza? Winter Ears Beacon Blue on Brown Off the Edge Sky Shame Jaguar	Continental Drift From a well of tears we sip from scarlet ink we write our fears our bright inner hearts in a nectar to nourish colors to soothe a spirit to stir that sweet blue tongue of us • sky •
Susi Richardsonl, © 2012 Bare Necessities In summer these moors lay in a heap scrabble barrens dead quilts of skin unshaven, rippled, scaled and crispy creased and irascible as cracked like an overcooked ham, its scrub and mottle repelling the light. But In winter, ahhh in winter these moors, are a beauty of starkness sculptures… motifs of ethereal bleak as the mists begin to rise, coating the grounds in cemetery whites and bone cold blue. The stands take on mystery ancient secrets might lie in the clearing. There! just behind the… the rich earth a delicate crunch and though the sky talks of the long blades of night, of the need for sun and seed, and feral winds nip at your ankles. they whisper as always they do with the painful sirens of spring reaching deep for the strings and tears of your soul.	When the Westerlies Come When the westerlies come my sunrises falter, their golden smiles filled with violets and grumble angrily tossing in a salad greens When the westerlies come the wall alights in electric blue-whites the circuitry cringes the quilt wraps around me in coils. I can feel your dastardly grin that says I’m getting mine for the sunsets I’ve breathed. I grin as I roll back barking back at Thor grumbling my ‘love yous’ deep beneath the skin of my sleep.	Explosions in the Sky © Cerique, 2012 Hanukkah in Gaza? Day fell like a tart kicked out of cab, abruptly, skirts rudely exposing scuffed wounds of light whimpering on the curb of the sky. Only a week til solstice now and twilight rinses like tea from a thrice used bag. My bones are talking back hips lecturing my feet fingers chastising what I force to my mouth, knees barking for less to bare. Its just the nadir of the year when the tide is always out. the cold sand chuckling at this northman’s fish belly skin. Old Sol is booked: a samba in Rio with a dark jazz trill sizzling on skin at a Cape Town beach, a sultry romance in the South China Sea. ~o~ Dawn kicked me in the heart smacking the dreamless coma from me, my romantic soaring on thermals of pastels only to be dashed - by a rockets red glare bombs bursting in air… Hanukkah in Gaza?
Testament - © Renae Schoeffel, 2012 Winter Ears Listen to the wet hissing off the traffic chuckling like eggs on a griddle old house tears neglect leaking through the gutters Listen to the shadows pining for light, detesting the season whining with the wind for blind justice for dumb luck - a reprieve. Listen to winter coming to jarring mornings of barren sheets of stark brittle light in the yard where knuckled limbs beat staccato knocking litanies of their loss to a feckless flannel sky.	Beacon Enclose me wrap your soul around these neglected bones. Blaze for me stir my ember to infernos my eyes to ever want you. Tease me with what I may never have: a beacon a siren of temptation a lap of seven sins arms that will never let me fall on that broken glass again.	Blue and Brown © Kristi Mayfield, 2012 Blue on Brown brown on brown malted fingers dancing rising pleas in the shadows blue on blue the sea in my eyes a canyon’s secrets creasing yours tickling your smile. blue on brown peering - searching tongue to tongue lip to salmon lip I want to be the cream in your coffee the curry in your paint the climax on your sunrise gold on gold my blue soothing your mocha brow.
© Renae Schoeffel, 2012 Off the Edge At the end of normal when the sky unzips revealing its pastel secrets its naughty scarlet surprise. At the cusp of night as stars peer in obsequious voyeurs trained on our nocturnal dance. At the neon’s trance where we pause or continue… “just once more”, he said the rest was cayenne and curry delicious, salty, and dark.	Sky Shame Sky set - embarrassed as if shamed with blush for fooling us. As if penance for it’s morning of promise when key lime and turquoise lit these farms in a Caribbean kiss, as if Nassau met Wichita / fat chance An thunderhead rose, its anvil like a carrier’s prow carving the sky great shoals of cloud parted, driven aside as a Peterbilt chumbling its grill thrusting transforming the morning mist. It’s just weather… Yet the sky is our barometer, our thermostat, our external soul our compass of what to expect. These are stranger times mayhaps, where hurricanes bring snow where locusts might swarm Antwerp their mandibles gnawing on the Dutch. I doubt they’ve a dike for that.	Atacama Coast © Niall Corbet, 2012 Jaguar our life would flow from the light off these waters from the core of these rocks our stone cold bones soothed by the Atacama’s heat ochre and beet indigo and ginger would dance from your canvas as the suns rise and set. I’d watch the cat in your eyes released from its hunt of brushes and hue hungry for my fingers the drop of my silks to your raspy tongue.