Strangers gather on the green
choking on smoke and the scent
of seared flesh.
The sun is climbing down
to meet the flames,
As her ashes smolder
he dampens her gown.
Just before the winds whip up
she is in Elysian Fields.
When dawn became morning, with the graceful arms of a ballerina, she tossed bread crumbs to finches and towhees gathered at the feeder. Sadly the flowers lay drenched in nights raindrops, puddled petals in a potpourri garden.
Wiping dried wax from the bedside table she replaced melting candles that held too many memories. Her silk scarves were cached in a pale blue armoire but for the rose hued tossed across the night lamp.
The hours pass slowly in a room blushed with moon-glow, the faint scent of sandalwood and a hint of dried lavender.
Mark Spain Art
A Sheer scarf covers the
lamp on the night stand
slivers of moon light slip though
the French doors
reflecting off walls of burgundy
and egg shell limbs caught
in loose binds.
She is the red of womanhood
her breasts alert gazelles
guileless eyes are the shade of currency
her mind has become his confessional
and there is no sin grave enough
A young birch sways
like a newborn giraffe
its limbs lean out over
wilted grass and ochre
vines wind a marble sentry
whose eyes never flinch
but guard eternal while
winter snow stacks on
solitary bones until May
winds stir the crowns of
trees filled with the wails of
wingless birds powerless
to fly on.
Your eyes are Himalayan blue,
they mutate from sparkling stars to the silver
of a cold planet.
With indifference you defeat me
until I am nothing more than an empty
vessel sailed away to write love letters
on the wings of distant angels.
When your nights are long
you may find me in the brush of a
homeless Chartreux winding about your
feet or in the sunflower eyes of a girl
Vincent Van Gogh
Poetry and Tea Roses
I will always disappoint you.
My words are no where near roses,
ink stained and caked with clay
though I have scrubbed them bloody.
My lines overflow with sudden downpours
that inflate into a monsoon
a swell you can not hold back with
the tenderest of sighs.
Still I beg to be saved from obscurity.
I tell lies lovingly,
each verse a litany of devotion
or a buzzed serendipity.
I will fall in love with the sleeved heart of every poet.
Give me a purpose , a wilting tea rose
or the embryo of a pearl washed ashore.
World Poetry Day is a time to appreciate and support poets and poetry around the world. It is held on March 21 each year and is an initiative of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).
A trampled path winds
its way through the
reaching arms of evergreen
to a misty wild wood where my
heart lies down with yours.
White tail deer nibble goldenrod
lift the veil of solitude.
Spring showers and wild flowers
flourish here where
April lives forever.
image © Joan Egert
He doesn’t know why she hurts, what she is thinking, he is not adept at examining those fine points best left in the pit of her belly. Her thoughts are dangerous bells, once rung they can’t be silenced. For him the final line is the closing, for her it is profound sadness.
The heart can fall like a suicide
spiral down like the shade of
cold as petals on an icy lake
a flowing grave of dreams
an echo chamber of pain
Let my tongue flirt like
a butterfly among
rather than polish my scars
debride my wounds.