Tag Archives: espiritual
an angel without eyes to god
she was an angel i did not expect
birth of thoughts induced
by booze and drugs,
looking at her gazing through glass
grimy fingerprinted silica,
overlooking a fire escape and alley,
those eyes almost burned
vibrant and echoing
i let her in,
in awe of beauty loins aching
hair pushed aside she smiled
obliged to kneel and bow
kissing feet so clean unspoiled
standing knocking over empty bottle
about to curse
she touched my lips,
unbuttoning the dress she wore
falling to the floor,
this was fantasy so amazing
full breasts broad hips,
flesh so tantalizing ,
without yearning felt cold pinpricks
in my neck associated with fear,
black wings extended from her back
dark feathered satin
part of her form
backing up slowly
as she began to sing so softly
a lullaby that evaporated my life
with every word
aerial burden of the ox
with the old decades shown in the rain
burdening me with a dampness
remorse in it’s wanting has,
flesh colored dreams
drawn tight into deep constriction
the next day would be more relevant,
sipping a coffee cold at the edges
no plate on the mat
hunger not the issue here,
wet clothes painful to the bone
unnoticed by a vapor soul,
scented thoughts
as my mind peeled
drawn into segments pithy and secretive,
pieces i could look at
and not venture a taste
any sweetness gone
acrid juice spilling over lingering images
this fight so ancient
could break me down at the yoke
leaving a harvested husk
and no resonance,
only to be lifted skywards
coffee grew cold
mat still empty

http://dversepoets.com/ #openlinknight
steps to a mocking truth
my shoes have grown
as my heart and eyes have seen
they walked with me,
since those first inaccurate stumbles
seeing surface and texture
slipped on,
tied,
buckled
leather formed about the feet,
or thrown in disgust
at a politicians head,
they walk with us
mutely seeing and interacting
as the animal they once where
to a human misery,
without shoes connecting to earth
and nature of earthen creation,
ski hardening
to dust
stone
and blacktop,
miles witnessed
to a freedom attained
toes as extremity population
encounter first and enjoy
what was once an overall entrapment
thorns may spike
stones may pierce
batons beat
and electrodes burn,
washed and anointed
our shoes are needed
protect
shelter
enable
and keep away the awful pains,
shoes see more
than we think
Winning Bukowski Tweet #1: wine by Chris Lawrence
Thank you so much Bukowski On Wry and all your readers , all the best
cumbria caravan , eastern view
4:30am
spelltime hour of silence
light defaces the sky
and sun confronts glass,
i am a discordant instrument
out of tune,
field and track make profiles
in the light,
rabbit flashes white tail
crows beckon with raw calls,
everyone is sleeping,
alone without cellphone coverage
or far reaching internet,
my problems an essential alphabet
to be categorized and processed
without many answers,
flushed with a sense of panic
brighter light folds about me,
besides dad gone since january
people move about my head
reaching for my attention
often stumbling,
sipping coffee
i asked them to be patient
my service was slow
attention would come
from the sleep abandoned
most awake now,
allowing the light to reach my retina
but there it stopped,
inside was still a bleak landscape
of whatever,
and i had not cleaned it up yet
no more dirty shoes
moon leaves hoofprint clouds
as with horses it races,
old stars more than pieces of rock
show somber interest,
there would be no more
shallowness to the sun,
as on earth below
with fingers in urn
scattering ashes
feeding eternal foliage,
those hoofbeats drummed your name
quick reflection passing over water
ashamed moon hides,
the longness of souls given to solitude,
ashes scattered in arcs
summer has laid it’s green pasture
as darkness fills the air
fireflies imagined appear
wishing for a net to catch them in
and crush with celestial hammer,
empty urn falls
shattered by hoofbeats,
damp meadow reveals the place
you began,
ambiguous shadows almost bestial,
tears make streets upon your face
all that could be over was,
coming with dust, dreams and flesh
the enchanted
and persistent stars
incredible saboteur
bones where our fathers sleep
forgotten beneath the stairs,
theater of the virgin daughter has begun
left the abyss
rode naked beneath a harvest sky,
flowers once cast upon the river
caught by rising fishes
their illiterate world
tensed and sure,
this has to be the darkest season
of blood not drawn by knife
but fear of the morning hill,
normal day without monsters
forged on sleeping mental despair,
no amount of her is aimless,
violets had been crushed on the lawn
buzzards had become trapped in
rivers sediment,
wrapped in fabric woven with
delusion and anagrams of what
love should of brought,
bands of gold encircle retinas flourish,
she has found a new way
more than chromosomes shared with
other mammals,
she raises a visible alarm,
society dissected under assured touch
and found the moon wanting,
no more to be buried side by side
eternal would be joy and dance,
then we sleep
horizons last echo
april sky so soon
drifting on a serpents tail,
leave things unsaid
as land sloop nods it’s sails
passing by
current winds darkly,
past rises and falls
heart regains soft perfume
and patient curve of dreams,
the dose of milky words is measured
and watch strong veins yield,
fertile nymph swift winged
with gentle reprimand and sweet caress
each phrase an anchor
she is the earth i sought
connect and chains alike rendered
into length across the gulf
range to stars and hand shaped sun,
beam downward facing light
it’s shift as hot as a hammer strike,
layers heat stripped back
pool of her shine
into a naked dance
witnessed by constellation
who appraised and agreed,
becoming fugitives
beyond a shouting earth
we fled on the arch
of freedoms ray
orchards of rockland maine 1892
fruit of pomona
yielding to reach and touch ,
never to be split between friends and lovers
that homer once wrote of them,
slight tug separation from tree
a tree that would outlive the fingers
among the branches,
each gathered in wicker basket
green and red flesh perfumed
one of softer flesh skin slipped off
pulled open juice spilled nested in pulp
not seed but foetal form,
an emerging conterpart who would grow
in truth,
licking away textured pale pulp revealing all
form grew and writhed,
this was nothing that pliny had written of or the
romans seen yet she knew,
as a woman in her warm spelt bosom,
the coming thunder was starting with overlaid clouds
to raise it’s crescendo,
female foetus of of rockland maine
with mind akin would grow so well,
her fingers had known degas face,
eyes seen the waves of suppression ,
in this basket another voice grew
oil impressionism
captured scene milhaud tones
creation and completion
the veritable truth,
that fruit of pomona spoke so well
no more a planet of empty milk and bread
in the spirit of the gods
many would red lip sacrifice
banner to trumpet call
it was settled now