What I’ve Become

You are my obsession,

undulating waves of fixation

that can’t be restrained.

What I know of you

I have learned through osmosis,

the taste of ozone I  crave

like breathing air.

It is always raining here.

I am nothing more than precipitation

slipping down the surface of

your skin.

 

Yes, I Am

Something completely different and extraordinary.
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A Reading Writer

he tried to give me
the kiss of eternity,
like a parched flower
he thought i need his shower,
but i don’t.

i felt my warm skin
against the cold wall,
as he pushed me deeper
to surrender my all,
but i don’t.

i sank, scratched my nails
against his back,
he tried to stop me
with a full-blown smack,
but i don’t.

before he gave
another strong blow,
i kicked hard
his tummy’s below,
yes, i do.

before my eardrums
cracked in his screams,
i pulled his gun’s trigger
and ended his dreams,
yes, i do.

for i am a woman
who doesn’t have a man,
but i won’t let anyone
to strip me to undone,
yes, i am.

now, ask me
if i am guilty,
of killing a monster
who could’ve killed me,
yes, i am.

06.14.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Public Domain Photo

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Faun at the foot of the fountain – by Gurkski

I want to be  a marble faun at the foot of the fountain in the heart of the market of the town where life swarms. Instead I sit on the steps of that fountain squinting at the antsy rustling around me, grabbing my bottle tighter.

I have since recently fallen in love with that marginally overweight businessman gulping from his pocket flask while waiting for his tram because I love the expression of fear in his face that I know so well. I love even more the posh secretary smoking nervously,  stomping her stilettos on the sidewalk, because she  leaves her package of cigarettes on the bench for me every  day of her working week.

The rest I majestically ignore. The same straying dog meets me at eight with a mouth full of hedonistic laughter and throws his meager body against mine to get the night shiver out of our bones.

Originally posted at Dithyrambs and Ditties

 

in memory of my father

His mother named him Carlos, such a strange name for a Welshman. Perhaps she loved Spain.  I said goodbye  by a bed near a window  deep with winter.

 

Muscadine

Summers heavy cloak hung

over fields of Goldenrod,

their long limbs reaching

out to mesh with spiky

leaves that sheltered

bundles of marmalade florets.

 

Their invasion of the meadow

met with merciless machetes

that hacked through  unwelcome

invaders who hadn’t the courtesy to

extend a pleasant fragrance.

 

The trail led to an arbor nestled

in a stand of trees to a brook

trickling lightly through a trellis

where never ending appendages

wound and weaved through a

dense clusters of bulbous

translucent nipples

clinging tenaciously to their host.

 

The scent of peppery earth stung

our  nostrils and attracted white tail deer

that ravaged the vines of their treasure.

The old man snaked a garden hose through

the lattice to frighten them, a guise that

worked only to frighten astonished lovers

lingering at fertile ground, a sacred rendezvous.

 

Soon the clammy dragons of summer

breathed their fiery breath and

the skin of the luminous fruit burst

with the sweetest nectar and the old man

declared them ripe and ready to harvest

by means known only to himself

and his son.

 

Ruptured with a pestle and filtered

they were processed by their secret method

and stored in ceramic jars.

Sweet and crisp, underdeveloped

but heady and pleasant.

 

Rarely did my father materialize

from his travels once I had been

delivered for the summer,

somehow harvesting  the grapes

invoked his presence like a lark at dawn.

 

 

vitis rotundifolia

in need of advent

Summer scatters her shades

in daring colors of red and green

asymmetrical patterns splayed

over fledgling birds taking wing

above silent fields and the late blooms

of lilac and  deep  blush of peony

still clinging  to a bowing trellis.

A flicker of  burnished copper feathers

dripping with the weight of dew

flit above sighing wheat fields bending

a breath of life  before  summer flew

her  stalks shrouded in  crusty leaves

tender stems beaten to the soil

in need of assurance,  a promise of rebirth.

 

Wild #Flowers <3 via | Hippies Hope Shop www.hippieshope.com

 

kabegami art

just before drowning

I am in Paris,

I think  I am dreaming.

It is before daybreak and

a man waits beneath a

street light.

A melancholy smile

that does not reach

our  eyes passes

through  us.

I am the anonymous

memory of a red rose.

He is between lovers,

roaming the city streets at night,

sinking into eyes deep

as the river Seine,

the kind one might find

just before drowning.

 

 

Related image

Iteso Ru:  Evening In Paris

quietus

Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness

Pablo Neruda – Carnal Apple

 

I can  still feel the brush of

your  amaranth hands cold as

a  winter breath.

In rainstorms I glimpse you in

lightening streaks outside vaporous windows.

Your steps come and go down hollow halls

still echoing  with  sorrow.

So  you may see what is left of me your eyes

are  etched in my mind.

We wanted to be more than a memory

or  displaced shadows of bodies in

wastelands  that  dismembered us,

scattered us like flowers.