By low lamp light and long after the sun has said its goodbyes Our weary and tired eyes run across unfolding pages Seeking all the knowledge that by the light of day passed us by And losing daylight hours in the process
We lean drowsily in reading chairs against bookshelf backdrops Watching raindrop reflections roll thoughtfully down window panes Borne along their whimsical way by subtle midnight breezes That dance strands of hair from our eyes like ballet
Our split screen symmetry is separated by mere miles Filling our solitary spaces with a shared energy So that each time my absent eyes turn to scattering raindrops I expect them to return to find you here
Each page I turn is soft marked with traces of your fingers And your scent lingers among allusions and allegories I hear each word sing out as though sprung from your alluring lips And I find myself smiling not knowing why
There is passion amid these worn out pages and bookmarked thoughts And the way your fingers traced each word is almost erotic Feeling my palms soft folded against the small of your book’s spine Makes me want to lose sleep between its covers
The silence between phrases pulses with such heated tension That I cannot help but lose myself in that silence so that I might grasp the pieces you let me see of your history And warm them tenderly in ardorous hands
The tired longing of the early hours of the nighttime Draws us both – at length – to the comfort of our separate beds Our internal rhymes slowly syncing through shared breath and heartbeats Dreaming of morning reading between soft sheets
Under the darkness of a new moon, The Dead Sea is a mirror that casts no reflections, A surface made of glass, primed to shatter, or burst, doomed to return to sand – forever to run in-corporeally through the fingers of cupped hands.
Wade into the water as deeply as you can, but you will not leave a ripple. Your brittle bones will slip beneath the surface like a ghost and if you dream to dive deep into the sea, know that the thick water will swallow you in a single breath and spit you out on the coastline long before the water considers giving up its depths.
Since everything is a reflection of our minds, everything can be changed by our minds. – Gautama Buddha
Go where the prompt leads you and publish a post on your own blog that responds to the prompt. It can be any variation of the prompt and/or image. Please keep it family friendly. Prompts close 7 days from the close of my post.
When you visit a new city, treat it like home. Hold it tenderly and love all of its rough edges. Roam outside of the usual tourist traps and turn the worn pages of each passing street.
Find hidden places and turn down chance side-streets without warning. Walk briskly up escalator steps. Glare at those who do not. Grumble at tourists. Wish you had stayed home. Experience the city as more than a stranger.
In late evening, I sit on the porch washed purple and grey, criss-crossed with fireflies and echoing with silence.
The howl of a wolf splits my silence in an instant, rending open the sky to let all of the passions of the world pour across my head.
That lonely wailing is jazz to my ears, played to an audience of one long after last call, when the low lights still glow faint-mysterious.
I feel almost sacrilegious bearing witness to the world’s heart poured forth, but I cannot help listening to that heartbreaking solo drip from the wolf’s throat somewhere out in the darkness.
My heart knows all of the notes of this haunted ode but as it begins to synchronize to that arrhythmic howling, the howl of a second wolf join the first with piano key-soft tones and a third add drums.
A spark of warmth appears and the wolves howls harmonize across an otherwise lonely night. I feel my howling heart steady, comforted in knowing I have a pack to run with when the night grows long.
On DVerse this Tuesday, the challenge is to write a poem in the first person that compares some trait of ours with something animal. It should not be a whale, but another creature (mammal, fish, bird, insect, etc.) with which we have something in common. The title should be the animal thing, in the same way Marjorie Saiser chose ‘The Print the Whales Make’.
I wrote this poem from a prompt in dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt calls for the writer to write a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title, and including the word “wine” in some form.
I trap the sun in a thousand dots under my skin, crafting them into maps wrapped around tired shoulders, so I can guide myself by the braille of my body when darkness shivers over me and night grows colder.
Wind scatters the mapped seeds of my dandelion dreams, casting my traces across oceans and continents. My second hand shoes plod through places I will never see, leaving footprints to sprout second hand monuments. My roots grow like thick, tangled vines through all my places, re-drawing my map with a thousand small traces.
The night sky I thought to be unnavigable is washed bright with the light of innumerable stars which cast sharp reliefs against my uncertain shadow and write me into small footnotes in the sky’s memoirs.
I find nourishment in streams whose quiet waters have washed clean the tarnished faces of kings and tyrants, cleaned sacred altars of unholy sacrifices and witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations. The water flows its history through my tired veins, and when the water is gone from me, pieces remain.
I am older than history, younger than time, formed full from the beginning of the universe and doomed to remain thus until my final days when I drink from the river, will you question my ways?