Friday, November 9, 2012

Poem for dark, stormy night ...


Starless night.
Come into my dreams, my love
Know me again,
and again.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Woman in full bloom

Ashen and smooth am I beneath these weathered clothes
I make love in places you cannot see,
there is a lava-movement, This stone is a slave to me
as you are my lover, for my eyes have bound you sure as
leather chains. And my voice becomes your nova Muse.
Jasmine yoni has captured your breath, and never,
Never shall you be the same.

S.

MagpiePrompt

Friday, October 26, 2012

Friday's Fave Five -Found Miracles

Being a gypsy ushers in small joys  ~

I.  Tuesday in Chinatown, I found a moonstone ring surrounded
by garnet circles buried under other rings.

II.  Re-discovered the Beatles song 'If I Fell In Love With You' and played
it over & over again until the song echoed in my dreams.

III.  On Wednesday, I picked up a single rose wrapped in cellophane on
the steps of  the West 4th Street Station. I'm still swooning.

IV.  Found a mirror with a purple frame at  the .99 Paradise Store on L.I.

V.  I walked into a tiny boutique & a little boy pointed at me & said
 Look at your hair!  Okay so it was windy. Gotta love kids. :[  o$xx#!

Leave your small joy ---- I know you have one or two.


Saturday, October 13, 2012

Stopping by the Woods on an Autumn Afternoon

Dear You,

It's apple pickin' season
and my Ma wants to meet you.

The boy who set her prickly girl's
heart on fire. I told Ma 'bout that

time in the woods, us rolling around
in nettle and red dirt, how you bit my

neck and then some other stuff, 'till more
stuff startin' happening below my belly

button. And I told Ma how you wrapped me
in your denim jacket and carried me all

the way home. I cleaned out an old milk
jar and stuck those wild sunflowers inside.

Now there's dust on my grandma's doily
and Ma says don't trust no man bearing

flowers with kisses like fire. I didn't tell
Ma it's too late, but she probably knows that.


Me

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Yesterday ...


Sunflowers suffer a brisk death.

Surviving in summery distress is an art.
She holds the fruit of paradise between sunburned lips.
Rhone detached her hat from a sleepy shopkeeper,
and crowned her with it and his intoxicating lovemaking.

Miserably loud crows filter in and out of the sun, only half afraid.
She remembers when men fell to their knees at the sight of her.


S.


Sunday, September 30, 2012