my verses are
flames meant to melt the
chalice of your heart.
In the white night
we cross the continents,
feel but never touch.
Our secrets too holy for the light
set the night on fire.
I am profanity in a sacred sky,
blasphemy of flaws to small to alter fate.
While I was thinking of you
a fledgling fell to earth,
saved by the wind on her
passage to life.
Only earth angels hear the tender rippling
In the pounding rain we
bare our quills to the world,
reappear from our veiled cage.
Bruises of the soul are slow to heal
but we are indifferent to pain.
Gardenias fill the room with mortality,
petals of sweet secrets nurtured by a rhapsody of recollection.
Surrendering dreams makes us still,
a vast wasteland where all poetic breath
dies with us.
We long for the clean scent of Spring,
the rust smell of earth infused in deep roots,
to hear again the swaying chimes on the limbs
of a slender Linden,
synchronized for the twilight hours.
Tonight in my nest of stones I have not slept.
Through the walls my neighbors fight over how
best to spend their time as it silently slips through
the space between their fingers.
As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be
present for the hours left.
When the dawn climbs above the ocean I can see
that deep amber on the shore, the color of
my lover’s eyes when aroused, waning to hues
of gold that glint in my half empty glass.
In the unkempt night I rearrange decaying books
wander halls of memories pillaging my mind.
Trinette Reed photography
You are getting closer,
I hear the crunch of soft sand,
the skitter of stones beneath your boots.
Your scent passes through my parted lips
stinging the flare of my nostrils and the choke
in my throat while your hands of steel butterflies
float over proud bones luring me gently
to the killing fields.
Your fingers are the scent of tanned leather,
I lick them like fresh flesh wounds.
Your feathered crop gently brushes my shoulders,
no one can save me now, there is nothing to do,
because you have always known how
to break wild horses.
I know I love you
because when I think
of you my heart feels full,
a pond choking with water hyacinth,
their hungry roots reaching deep
into the beds of yearning,
overflowing walls of longing
where I am so afraid to fall .
Because I love you I forfeit
my privilege, allow my heart
to drown in you as though you
Vincent Van Gogh
Throw away those pages,
that pink littered landscape.
Where is the victory in pity?
Build your mansion of bones
and sorrow so deep it can
not be contained but spills
from the fissure of your heart.
Reach inside stretched
skin whose scars still sting.
There is no poetry
in swallowed pain,
of the temperate voice.
Those words are still born.
No life lives there,
no womb that has birthed
scorn and rage.
Autumn scatters her shades
in daring colors of rust and copper,
asymmetrical patterns splayed
under fledgling wings above
silent fields of late blooming
lilac and the soft blush of peony
left clinging to a bowing trellis.
A flicker of burnished feathers
dripping the weight of dew,
flitting through blowing wheat fields,
the breath of life after summer flew.
Dried stalks abandoned beneath crusty leaves,
their tender stems beaten to the soil
in need of assurance, a promise of rebirth.