Borrow those
Happy hours
I want to count
The time layers
Smell the minutes
And tiny seconds
Float like petals
In dense tequila
under the blue
Death light
Soaking in
past images
And late evening
metaphors
More at https://gopallahiri.blogspot.com.
leaves paper the sky; spreading hands shielding
the blaze of a sultry day from the tinder box
crumble threading our journey through the trees
as pages turning diary like to once before
when youth’s lantern faces gleaming
we shone with song more deliciously ardent
than the apple buds’ danced imaginings.
the circle full, the trunks sawn and strange,
pressed to a paper of our own printed work
where we write of that day’s woodland walk
and those fierce rent wandering words
fixing forever breathing, igniting whole
the flame leaping blaze of those tiger thoughts
of that shady sunned apple grown afternoon.
More at https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com/.
My mind a sky tumbled; a glass of thought.
I want to pour on to paper pearled drops
Of dew to quench the hungry, thirsty pages.
Bluely burned and lit words are forming you
Into a being of strange landscapes glowing
Dangerously; death darkly brooding and rank.
Each mental recess an avenue of despair.
You channel rivulets of words pain-bound
To a sea of messages sliding silver-grey
Beneath my hands. Pain, loss and soft beauty too
Shivers and something silk and richly woven
Has begun to sew itself to my clouded
Mind, despite the angry disapproving
Unbelieving staid stares and prying glances.
Past is alive and a throbbing agony
And all memory is vermillion.
as bones dry
tears irrigate landscapes
blushed cheeks,
running creeks
of mascara blues
dark shadows oversee
graveyards of feelings
and epitaphs of irony
form words on stone monuments to the dead
fantasies
of forever intended “i do’s”
i walk through this silent storm
during partially moonlit nights
and think of you, and you and you
and find no words
to etch into my stone-cold memory
for you or you or you
three shadows follow me along the walk
and my hand draped limply at my side
no ghosts i want to hold onto
just gnarled fingers of pain disfigured
dreams
as bones dry
as bones dry
i cry to no one in particular
and then gather my tears like ashes in an urn
and toss them over my shoulder
moving on
thankful for that minuscule slit of moonlight
that stuck around for the finale.
Water under the bridge,
flooded my memory.
My thoughts became history.
If I could just let the water continue
to flow, to get past my misery.
Childhood in Poland.
Carefree and warm.
We flounder in the water like beavers
and although leeches pinch us in the calves
we build the dam.
The river is dreaming.
Reflecting as in a mirror
the familiar faces
of friends and loved ones,
they forgot me,
their children have grown up
and gone into the unknown.
The river is dreaming.
And I’m still standing on the footbridge.
I’m afraid to jump.
Cross the dam of time.
My mother’s love
of hair bands
decorates my life now
decorated my locker
in high school
just like hers
decorated my room
just like hers
small connections
between us two.