September 2011


The 3rd Movement of Thee
17 Comet 42
Blow Holes
Cat's Cradle
Evenfall

Love like Wine must Breathe
Colorfast
Dawn Breaking Fast
Too Bruised form their Fall
Winefire Days

The 3rd Movement of Thee

We moved amongst limbs
and planks of naked sunshine,
wheaten, our tans washed
by the solar morning rain.

We moved in the shadows
as a secret handshake,
a coven of two
concocting our moments of bliss.

We moved as a sonnet
might woo a concerto,
a passage of exquisite music
making love to phrases of rhyme.

17 Comet 42

An odd volume,
A tome of unknowns?
Volume 17 of Comet: Page 42.
It is here to take you and I on a tale.

“Harbor Master,” it begins…
“Permission to take the channel,
Permission to churn this belly of the seas.”

I am eastbound and empty,
a vessel of cold white stars.
I am laden with years of shadows
with sorrow, a hunger,
and the fragile bones of the moon.

“Harbor Master, I’m clear.
Channel markers are 40, port and down."

"Good fortune, OUT.”

I am a comet on these glossy black waters,
a trail of vapor and light,
pulled toward a sun I can never leave,
slung out into the void
as your heart sings to me.

Blow Holes

Love is relentless -
flowing from chimneys,
in ash and castoff remains.

Crawling from the gutters
in obsidian pools of innocent eyes,
closing each night for another morrow of hope.

Love is smiling from the wrinkles
that collect around their eyes,
of those that traveled the decades with you.

Grins in the darkness
that remembers touches and hand made gifts,
aswim in the cobwebs of your giggles and scrapes.

Love gets caught in your throat,
memories playing with your shadows,
its fingers brushing the down of your cheeks.

Love is startling and wild,
taking you hostage at unexpected speeds,
a gush of discovery and startling rhyme.

Love is listening for the beauty of a lark’s sweet song
and finding it has laryngitis.
Love is knowing her streams have frogs.

Love blows a hole through your soul.

Bloom by Rayla Noel, © 2011 : Shukria mere mitr.

Cat's Cradle

Maltese gray she called it.
An ermine flourish on her autumn cape,
a thick ring of soft, its sumptuous cradle
absorbing the gnash of teeth from the street.

As the brownstones clutch at their shadows,
dark alleys scowl, the Burmese growl
barely hiding their heat
as her fragrance slinks by.

M'Lady prowls in suede Nine Wests,
Liquid jersey poured over her gluteus hyde.
Each Tom is put in his place.
Her every clack and purring whisker
                                      - strutting 'Upper East Side'.

Evenfall


Hummocks rise in the haze
piled one in front of the other.
Subterranean beasts in repose,
as women jumbled, hip to shoulder,
breasts embraced, cleaved,
huddled as the day exhales
in a lazy blue smoke silhouette.

A chaotic stitch of river runs
its copper scar in the distance,
in a jag of liquid light,
the fragile crease of this moment

              …glistening…

to become a gnarled indigo vein
running back to the heart of the sea.

Love like Wine must Breathe

Nothing tastes like time and love
as the seasoned skin of another,
their dermis like wine,
aged and fire sketched on the vine,
etched into oaks,
their charcoal remains
earthy cells for the senses.

Chocolates, tobacco, and cherries,
hissing tannins on a hungry tongue.
Nothing tastes just so...
in that long luxurious exhale.
Love, like wine, must breathe.

Colorfast

Crayons are inadequate,
my water paints too pallid,
my tongues are tied,
too thick for the milk
that dribbles from the breast of my muse.

I need a raw palette,
Kandinsky, not Monet,
a Bach de-constructing the waltzing skirts of Brahms.
I need a premature sunset
strained through Vulcan’s light and Etna's ass.

I need a thesaurus that’s never been written,
a synonym for black that explodes with vinyl sin.
I need a thousand riveting words for gray,
and a brush twisting, dripping in altar boy-white,
defiled but no less divine.

I need bluing and blood,
a vampire’s Wisk; something won't wash out.
I need the visceral cry of a forest’s loins
that screams orgasm in GREEEEEEN!
I need a sunflower bowing,
deferring to the yellow of a politician’s spine.

Photo by Lynda Nichols © 2011