I'll find you-
in muted early morning light
falling around curves of flesh
causing ancient thoughts to ignite
and filling hearts with forgotten splendor
Twin dermis seeking safety will reunite
each of it's tingling nerves not one abandoned
and that rising sound of steel through icing's delight
not thickened tension, but sweet release.
Mouths collapse into endless fight
struggling to find air and words
the tongue lost in the traces of night
but finding moments to escape
to prove it's adoration isn't slight
Now rusty parts slide and shift with ease
and fingers clasping mechanisms tight
cogwheels greased with desperation
put out the flicker of shutter sight
grinding out sorrowful sighs of pleasure
demanded and supplied with might.
Anxieties of separation sedated,
the buzz of humming-bird like flight
Created nothing less of surrender
frustration having taken the largest bite.
the depth of this dawn on the horizon
exceeded the sun's highest height
though the later day will bring it's sinking
and another tunnel-like plight.
Another sorrow will build upon itself, heavy.
When beings part, there is nothing like it quite
And there is only one recourse I see
this fiction of which I write-
Friday, July 23, 2010
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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I was just awarded the Perfect Poet Award from Promising Poet's Cafe/Jingle Poetry. I'm excited, I want to nominate everybody but I...
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when our bodies clasp each other my heart lights a beach bonfire- and my toes forever step in it's embers.
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RICK: Hey Rick? DICK: Yea, Dick? RICK: See that sky roll on by? (points) DICK: ...Oh, my... RICK: Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner....
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hunger is sometimes preferable to loneliness. a stomach will twist- but hands become dirty and heavy when full of coins.
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husband and I trek a mile for ice cream just for the creamy banana, crunchy pecans, and chunks of thumb-sized chocolate. shoes flipping and...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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Today I was interviewed for Poets United small stone: July 13th so many things for granted, taken: two kinds of silverware.
I love the rhyme scheme here, and the entire thing. great write Amy. :-) <3
ReplyDeletethanks Dana!!
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