Rotorelle sings

Visit the original to read this in full, so beautiful!

 

Woodsy the Performance Poet

Always a little wonky and a little wild and a little frayed, mainly because she was never entirely sure how to draw herself (even with the entire sky as her paintbox), 

Rotorelle swooped her way through strange and turbulent times…

and when people saw her, blazing a trail over angry protest marches, they raised their guns and their flags and their attitude mottos in her honour, expecting her to be a real badass.

But her song of choice, for all the vibrant colours of its melody, was a deeply gentle one.

It was the one song she could never ignore… the one song she could never switch off… the one song that caught in her breath and died in the sunset…

as vulnerable as the light from distant floating stars…

~~~~~~~

Such a tender face I saw,
dancing with all the things I’m not.

Such a tender face I saw,

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New Life

Maxima has been missed ! Comments closed here, please visit the original.

Maxima

In the fog my imagination and my heart
that are live fires that like lightening envision
you in the image of a Goddess.
What’s before my eyes is the beauty of a tender
flower. The fragrance of sweet petals
and I must go beyond the boundaries to bend
your stems gently, daring to touch that sacred
core and move upward to your heart that beats
like a wild animal.
Slowly the petals spread and as I touch them
my dreams become reality and I enter a new world where
you belong to me and we entwine and become one.
I want you to love me like no other man,
to call me by my name and will call yours
and when we kiss the entire universe is ours alone.

With love Maxima

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The huntress

TheFeatheredSleep

yes

She

knows her power

heaving out of her like

red clay forming stars

the power it has on

those who watch

unable to quit her

imperfection as much an aphrodisiac

as those fine lines converging into

her thin bones

drawn tight and ageless

she smiles a drowsy grin

down turned eyes glinting

the thin shake of her hair

sharp curve in high cheeks

noble and unrepentant

she has more confidence than you

with your excuses and your fumblings

could ever possess

if she’d taught you, she’d have said

no, no, no you’re doing it all wrong

if you want that woman to like you

be cold, be indifferent

and occasionally, throw her a scrap

don’t ever show her your full regard or

the depth of your eyes

heft her over your shoulder when the time comes

take her to a dark place and without apology

do what you must, thinking…

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Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro

Excerpt from “Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro

my dear
you are between a rock and a hard place
your face does not illuminate the same as the others
your lights are few and speckled
but i’ve always loved freckles
you are a grid system at first glance
i know they tell you real women have curves
but real women know better than that
sometimes you are cold and the conversation runs dry
but it’s not easy being as high as you are all the time
i love you
i never want to leave you
and i know you don’t believe me
but you are the manic pixie dream girl
who at times is slightly annoying
but i know your heart is too full of
homeless men laying out sleeping bags
on the floor of your rib cage
great tent cities on your shoulders

Diana’s January Story: Dead Planet

 

 

Myths of the Mirror

Dead Planet

Our planet died, for no living thing can thrive forever beneath the grinding thumb of neglect. But the blue squalls and wind-carved rime weren’t the first to herald a long overdue demise. We endured fires, then the parched ash and dust of rainless drought. Snow seemed almost a blessing until summer never returned.

Now we trek south, burdened only by the essentials, all luxuries of the past abandoned along the way. Lighten the load. Always lighten the load. Learn to survive with less because that’s become the single, intentional goal. To survive.

I wonder, do the southerners trek north? Will we meet in the middle and goggle at each other, our doom reflected across the narrow gap separating our frozen breaths? These are the things I ponder as my snowshoes cut a jagged groove through the crust.

We reach the mountains’ divide. Finally. Ahead stretches a white tundra…

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