the storm’s passed
and bright sun wait
to roll out
on a leaf, linger
take their time
to the sky.
today it rained
sky so low the gray
brushed my skin,
back to the sky
the air, heavy wet
lost it’s grip,
stippled my windshield
was it gunshot or thunder,
curses or prayers last night
directing my dreams
on the city street
i slip one finger
through the belt loop
of his jeans.
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As twilight succumbed to night’s inkish cloak,
A melodic penumbra enticed me.
It beckoned me nigh, the instruments broke
Through a distance that tends to define me.
Abreast of the band pulsed the undulant
Crowd as the bass ground my hips to its groove
The saxophone wailed a lick of consent
To the trombone that had nothing to prove.
The drummer kept pace, our rhythms entrained
As the energy wound us together
The shadows, we pushed, the players, they strained
Over the improvisational tether.
Hands lifted high, momentum increased
To the infinite night our desires released.
we were torn apart
(she and i were torn apart)
i feared her, being her
feared she would
shatter on contact
or sweep me away
in her riptide
although she had no body she was drowning
once upon a time
we made peace
at the shoreline
the rolling surf
drowns out curses
and our pleas
to each other
to be right
to be loved
what is constant in this inconstancy
tides rise and fall
the moon swaps
place in the sky
with the sun
everyone knows he would be nothing without her
i reach for arms
on the sand
braiding the strands
to the wild beauty
The ancient muse who comprehends
the unexpected ebb and flows
and language where all language ends
relieves the snow with spring’s amends
while keeping steady in repose.
That ancient muse does comprehend
the breath between two souls transcends
tornadic tangoed lovers’ throes
and language where all language ends.
More fragile than the mind intends
(while hide and seeking) to disclose
the ancient muse does comprehend
the cages made to self-defend
but gently coaxes out from those
in language where all language ends
a whispered, “yes.” The heart extends
a slow-unfolding gossamer rose
to the ancient muse who comprehends
the language where all language ends.
The repeating line “language where (all) language ends” was taken from Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem,”On Music”, which arrived in my inbox through Every Day Poems on Tuesday April 14.
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