November 2011
As the Trees...
Field of Tears
Photo Slots
Menopausal Sky
Food for Thought
Spiritus
... as we all
Sunset Blessed
Trickle Down
Standing By
As the Trees...
As the Trees…
Snow drapes their limbs like jewelry,
each is glistening,
as if proud of its crystalline catch.
Each corner of the panes caught in mosaics,
small tapestries on a canvas of glass.
As the trees…
I would wrap your skin in a stole of white fox,
your coffee spilling over with cream,
nothing else, just fur,
a steaming latte’ in a bed of alabaster
a quench for the fire in me.
Field of Tears
I can laugh with you,
dance the petals off a daisy,
spin a carousel
from inside this cathedral of clouds.
I can raise light with you…
turn a soft dusky mauve
to a scintillating ruby -
we’ll have this toddler walking
in a rainbow by noon.
I can cry with you
in these days of beauty,
as the rains fall in blessings…
zircon kisses to this field of tears.
Photo - 'Field of Tears' by Codrinseth
Photo Slots
In the crease of your smile,
that pause between smirk and come hither,
in the slips and cracks,
where time speaks louder than the touching verbs.
The photo slots,
the gaps in the slo-mo,
before you said I love you,
before I licked the dribbled Riesling,
before Marvin sang “I Want You”,
after your eyes grew so wide with Ohhhhh!
Menopausal Sky
Mocha slats,
gilt edge blinds - drawn tighter
to a throttled dawn.
Blue slate pulsing with electric cotton,
an angry armada,
its arsenal unleashed to the sea.
I feel your foot…steps pause,,,,
then the wrath gusting,
the force of you slamming the sky.
Slashes of salmon -
new slats relaxing, relieved.
My love’s reprieve… for now.
Photo © Scott N. Loveall, 2011
Food for Thought
We scared each other.
The chandeliers rattled
and ghosts came tumbling down.
Old confrontations
came oozing from the walls.
Let's stop running
and accept what is there.
I will feed on your colors,
as you chew on my words,
both of us fat and sassy with smiles.
Sunset Blessed
I would hold you in these waters,
a baptism complete,
this love at the altar of the sea.
No deity nor pagan priest,
only the other's forgiveness,
only the judgements
of these martyr-less waters,
only these caramel skies,
the hiss and the gentled rhythms,
the lasting embrace of this blood orange sun.
Photo © Scott N. Loveall, 2011
...as we all
Knuckles rap in the wind fleeced oaks,
shaking their pockets of scarlet and golds,
sovereigns for the soil -
alms for Mother.
It is the crisp of the season,
where cold reason thrives,
where color never prevails,
nor thrives,
but falls to the blade
…as we all.
It is harvest on the air,
ghostly oats and sallow ambers,
chaff in the weakening rose gold light.
It is their august of lives,
threshed, raked, siloed, cured,
their blood - turning like cider
in the sparkle dark of these autumn nights
…as we all.
Trickle Down
Even laughter has to dance
on cracks and thin ice.
Even moonlight gets lost
in the dark roast pools
of your mischievous eyes.
My hand to you:
May I have this dance?
In this trickle of delinquency
may I lift the bawdy hems of your light?
Standing By
I have your gentleness in my pockets,
I have your naughty on my sleeves.
Your colors flood the tide
as this dawn seduces me.
Your voice feeds me stories
as I walk these sands and smile.
I have your eyes in my brimming heart,
and this hand I have held through these miles.
I have your spirit in my silences,
and your grin in my mind’s eye.
I’ve your devil in my details
and an endless fever is ever standing by.
Spiritus
I am a shadow now, an old movie
played on the back-walls of your skull,
an intersection of a lesser vein,
an engine of memory,
tucked away, retired,
a knot in the closet…
of broken dendrites and fever dreams.
I am a whicker in the darkness
when your stalls are spooked,
a teardrop hissing
as it falls on the …embers and -tobers.
You are my spirit now,
an etching on the caves of my heart,
a scrimshaw on my tender bones,
a cameo, milky cold and tender,
quicksilver running from my lips,
a brand on the cheeks on my soul.