A world away
means we are dust
Showing a sign
Is a leaf in the crack of the sidewalk
Even if I did say
You know I’m true
I got mad
You know my heart is real
That shoot sideways
Things layered in misdirection
Never touches yours ever again
Never feel the tautness of your stomach
Regardless of my desire
Listening to your desires
A world away
Means we are dust
Cold, of a certain depth, certain speed, enough to conceal .
Annie had freckles that hid frowns, dusty eyes—unmanageable red hair like wild wires sitting upon a strange round head.
Pulling Jessie’s wet wrists, towards the water, hands slipped away.
Annie had words to say. The words had to mean something even if they sounded like nothing.
Her voice was the trembling kind, a voice without certainty.
Such a voice carries in the forest differently. It is embraced by small sounds. It was these small sounds Annie placed hope upon, to take care of Jessie.
Jessie had been strong for her tiny stature, a rugged frame with a curvy overtone, bronzed skin and goddess hair.
It is true a river separates the banks, but they meet somewhere, either at a spring or a river, or the ocean. Such it was that Annie hoped for Jessie.
It was time for the words. First—sound of commitment, not the act itself, but the desire. Second—words of bonding. Annie kissed Jessie’s lips, frigid, but the lips should have been bluer. Third—a plea to the river. The words had to be spoken like an action, a movement of life, a movement towards death………….movement. The water never stops.
The splash of Jessie’s body echoed off the trees lining the river. They were the only other witnesses.
Was it too loud? The snow, thanks to the snow, the sound was dampened.
A couple specks danced in the air, gliding down, disappearing within the carpet of white that hid the soil.
All was quiet, until a couple of trees rubbed trunks, sounding like a wild animal with its paws sunk in dirt.
Annie raised her silent head and solicited the sky. “Touch her!”
Span of index, arms weakened
Rambles upon wrinkles, I am
Pressed between Earth and
Air…..Flow upon my continent’s
Systems, scattered over ranges
Puddles flirt with thirst, Lakes,
Mock the drought of my
Throat, Reservoirs dribble…
For My body is a gathering
Of harvests from the oncoming
Winter, the divining rod dust
Only Scent lingers, eternal pine
I look to the snow, Taste
The season, a melted past of
Garnished greens, grays, and suns
Hearty robin, ever alive, steam
Floating from her beak, Nest
Built of water, sticks, and mud
Her Feathers, wisdom’s movement
Lay upon my words, a slow worm
Snagged from frosty grass
Scrawled black upon the field
Desert letters made of tree knot
Symbols smeared / slants of rain
The blue, blue liquid cleanses
Meaning, shot out of innards
The words, worms always
Cut in two, the clay I am
My eyes, lids nearly glued shut
Begging for preservatives
Or the relieving thought of
A connection to moisture
That will keep words moving
My wet hand through dirt.
Pain rides up between thumb
Finger, Palm and Lifeline.
My arm is silent, swollen.
Language is oil now, dug
Dug, deep under my nails
I see behind the glance
The smell of hair
My nose dug deep
Kisses graze off
Missed deserts drink
Daylight, a fear
Nighttime, a place of fibs
Soft hidden in the harsh
I have no sight
Beyond what I feel
Within contact, silence
It’s not a word
For those, who run
And run, and ruin
Wetness drops, then
A host of wishes
The sky is too full
Planets glide, as
Satellites grab, desperately
I’ve a thousand looks
A tune for everyone
That includes nobody
I say nothing, as it should be.
I see before the glances
Scent lingers, now
I dig my face, deep
Inside the pillow
There are days of longer daylight
When time can’t figure out what direction it travels.
A lost light, which cannot heal, as it hurls itself forward
A movement through something, changing
Abandoned. It cannot come back or go home.
We build nests with thoughts, to further
Our grip on movement, creating, extending,
Daylight beyond the planet’s wobble
Building structures deep into the backswing
Back and then back again
Comforting our ego, the id out of control.
Still, we are afraid to go. Where else,
Does one go if not mingling with the sky?
A Trip of returning to yearning
Our haven, a little heaven that discomforts
The hidden specter the day yanks at
Drags our taste for life onto the welcoming mat
A home, We sip sweet flavored rum
Grinning with a separation in our teeth
The little tiny thing that holds us back
The fear is found in the haunting smile
Kisses are heated lip upon lip, sweet rum
They are open for debate, scented
Sweat, searing into sugar moistness
Lasting through a fragile daylight.
|vivachange77 on Summer Forest|
|David Koblentz on Thoughts|
|Elan Mudrow on Thoughts|
|rivrvlogr on Thoughts|
|Casey Knight on The High Desert|