After you left I ran along the shoreline past the jetties and scattered surfers hoping to catch the last waves. A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain. Fat globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Guttural sounds mutating to unearthly howls carried out across the waves. I waited there until they dissolved into the sea.
The sky is always blue and the ocean is frothy meringue not a murky sea where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip. Your eyes and throat sting with the rush of saltwater, screams fill your brain but not the air. Sea gulls swoop and squawk, perfect black angles against the sunlight. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.
What the night birds
sing when dreaming
I can translate to you
as though I were San Francesco.
They sing this: open your heart
like the blossom of a Ditch Lily
kissing the warm night
in the dark light.
Let the Pegasus of your most
daring fantasies fly high.
That’s what they sing
in this sweet night.
Thank you Free Verse Revolution!
bring forward a globe of fire reflected
in the irises of my eyes
or an ocean pooling in my palm.
My nights are the darkest psalms.
Your memoir etched into my heart.
One tender sway and suddenly I remember.
I drift on an opalescent breeze
dreams flower in my hair
They shed in heaps of autumn leaves
rust and gold and green
I am traveling far from childhood
where dreams were never welcome
against transparent skies
I cast my tattered shadow
A Mayan goddess taking flight
thrumming ancient wings
art by Karal Bak
I feel you in the pouring rain
violent or soft as a breeze.
A distant star you fade into
the night from which you came.
Wounded hearts are slow to heal
but I have become indifferent to pain.
Sweet gardenias fill my rooms with mortality
decaying petals soaked in secrets
rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr of your sigh.
We are a wasteland, all poetic breath died with us.
I long for the scent of earth infused with deep roots,
the soothing sounds of swaying wind chimes clinging
to the limb of a live oak,
soothing sounds for the twilight hours.
Please visit the original for the reading of this poetry.
I have never met her.
Yet I can smell her scent on my fingers.
I can hear her laughter. The way it lifts and dances and makes me smile.
I can feel the press of her body, her skin soft against mine, my face buried in her hair, I can imagine how she responds to my touch, the blush in her throat, the quickening of her breath and the rising of her breasts.
The hardening of her nipples. Her wetness against my thigh.
I can taste her kiss. So vividly that I am running the tip of my tongue over my lips to capture the sweetness.
I can see her eyes, bright, eloquent, shining, luminous.
Making me sigh.
I have never met her
But if I did
I would surely fall.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Steve Hanks
I have posted this a number of times. …
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It is too soon
to prune but wilted petals
wave provocatively from a
among the bent stems the sun is pleasing to bare shoulders.
Pulpy worms are sweet to scavenging tongues of hungry birds
plucked without warning from spidery veins of leaves
Elongated roots relentlessly war with nicked and bleeding fingers
I know it it is too early but chaotic gardens long for control