Spring as your walk, your shoes having lost their toes, your skirts in midair in flaunt in cellophane, within tapestries you waltz – the Louvre in your bed, Monet your Papa
We have met in winter in dream amid embers amid hope’s threadbare, why did you not come to free the finches’ gold? To blue the sky’s stringed instruments – that music born of soft and smacking of beauty at every turn
Spring in your green fame, light as fluff and born of wish, how the tango is a lope in winter where you are not, none, nothing and my all
The sun is as silent as the moon save for the train whose sound circles my tea and falls in, bravely pink turns to blue and soft is satisfied within its thatched roof, I caution the wind that suddenly whips and whisks, I am not heard
I’m feeling the wine in the southern valley grapes, the tires need kicking, but I will get to that soon enough, lazy is this day that promises slight of hand, I will go to the courthouse to marry my Matt, I shall recall the grass as green though it is white, the trees will sing of teals puffing their cigarette sky and I shall a lover be
Walking above the trees’ bones, birds sewing a blue cloth, little twists of breeze, birds singing helium, I begin my work with a wrench lacking feathers and knowledge of architecture, quiet condos filling the trees, twigs, flutes, oddments of gentle, a lack of gravity all around me – summer day
The water is still cool from winter, everything a dark green, the water falls warm in the sun, I sweat in its fire, my hair red as yelling, my curls dampen, drip doll destiny, the water is not a book though today, yes, today, the pages are glue from a new bottle that the breeze won’t shuffle, the young water of grief that she has gone, the only mother, who gave me frosting roses, just passed, seven years ago, the night the fish were flying, their wings catching on the air
O autumn, in your priceless, caught beautiful and running, spending your skirts on a golden wind, you spread Camus across the sheep, across my favorite blue, and the red in your plum-size raspberries invites a taste of bauble, I have never thrown you away, and yet, one day you’re gone, never growing old, winter the funeral for my grief
Sometimes I think it’s the moon bubbling up, a quiet fizz, the sky a drink of blink playing fetch another night, hammers across the world are turning trees to cocoons, caterpillars, cocktails, pine apples, plastic rain, the world sketches, almost an artist, almost a pearl, the only one left, I pocket it and unzip a poker staircase
The bay imagined me reckless, today, so here I am in wind and mists, my cheeks a copper rose, my hair useless twine, I am kin to seals of moan and rich barnacles, and is that the sun to be or not to be?
Strange the door standing in the sand, that it’s locked and without walls as a window hangs loose from a day star, and inside or outside I stand as a shock of blue dyes my hair with wings, I am flight sudden, catching a wrong moon with no ticket for this sky, it is day, it is but this once and it is my turn to sapphire
The howling was distant and so we slept until the howling was every night, so we joined in, and to be a wolf I would liken to being a building made of light and fire, or the sea as mountain powerful and grim, we told ourselves things imaginable and impossible that we believed as we fell into echo, we knew we were delicate weapons, and when it snowed, we laid down and let it cover our burning which we never left and so it goes, and so it is
NOTE: I watched a video of a wolf lying down as it snowed lightly in late day. The wolf was howling. It was a terrifically beautiful and powerful image. Other wolves howled also at different times, but they couldn’t be seen. I have loved wolves ever since. And yes, I fear them.
Warm crumpled pie and bounced stars at the windows, into away – day is in maple buckets, two maple cars in the driveway, sleep has rid itself of sleep as darkness toys with the plump wisdom of silence
what shall we say of leopards set free, where they hide slinking in plain sight, what shall we owe the fortune cookie and its holy, douse the trees with green and ever, let us gather a sampling of beach crushed waters, run away into the trees that will slant the truth of green come October, and the sky is spent, one dapple of moon’s blush and gin’s the whore, the kite and the thorn
Bourbon and wolf, orange in the fire, I arrange the moon to light a gleam, create some spun mellow, slow the sequins, slow irises looking through, I spend my ticket on the mannequin with the lover, spend some dice on Spanish zen and sorbet, rescue me Ricardo Spurs
the dance is hardly enough, it all begins in the corn field – the horse drawn minuet, cricket, red pepper and yawns of narrow, step lively, this is your history fiction, comb the gardenias, the sun is meek and cockatiels are grabbing
With sooty hands, night wind whistles a new moon pushing its pram across the sea, and I a wake, am sorry 5am breaks the yolk and spills its shine upon stone birds, breathe in, breathe out, make of coffee religion
the dog I do not own wants out, the man never mine is in the shower, the education I’d hoped for is silent film tangled, O spill, tear into my daydreams and scatter the makings of each trembling cocoon
morning is painted, the trees have been hung with mints, youth my spring, seduce the fields to sudden deer, splash the blue sea sky, tumble on, this is day
You warn me I shouldn’t waken my toes drinking salt sea air on the tobacco road to shimmy’s wood moon
I am once apple and two times light, I am the noonday’s drench of garden, I am almost yet whole, I am the fasten tree and the blue marble rolls on
NOTE to my followers: I am on a new path regarding my poetry. I will continue writing poems like the above. I will write for me and hopefully for you, too. Thank you for reading the above poem. Thank you for being a follower of this poetry blog.
I’m a look/find kind of person given to seeking the stuff of broccoli cheese, the beauty of Lalique, I hear a bird, I listen, take notes, assume places for commas, I have seen days like cookies and days like resin pork, I cannot explain the moon, how it Sinatras, I know little geography except that it seems to be everywhere without pause
As if large, it’s a small midnight, no one here, gone into their dreams of cellophane strangers and quicksand speak, all the way to the kitchen I hear the moon’s silence, it sounds like leaves, like it’s rustling, maybe I’m hearing an impossibly light train with many cars skittering past the darkest alone
Slow, his language whispered last night when the town bell rang eleven, “Let us go in now, let us bring honey and sweet rubies and the reaching moon, and I did not answer on the sandy path, but raised the edge of a sheer thirst over my head so he might taste the salt of the stars
Looking outside as if to find something more than the one wooden shed city in among the summer days making their way further into the greens and misty mornings that cost a walk with the dog who owns me now for five years of pro-ball and couture bacon mornings that come too infrequently “like Christmas comes” my golden lies and I agree stirring the tomato soup or broccoli cheese for we are chefs joined at the hip as I weave bacon into our days more often without saying while he sleeps on my feet yelping that an animal chases him through a strange jungle until he wakes a brave dragon
I’m sure I can’t go until summer when there’ll be the kinds of people who plot to form a crowd where they sell the blue cookies yeah blue with butter frosting not unlike snow that blankets after a foot has fallen in under two hours of hell ya it’s winter it’s staying a while like lost love that tears you up for years of splinters in every heart I ever gave that what-was-I-thinking guy who had the Golden named Frankie I’d play fetch with for one throw ’cause I’d have to go get the ball smart dog owned by Mr. I’m Walking with his photos of Mexico on the kitchen counter cause he wanted out so there’s south of the border staring at me in see-thru Kodachrome stretched out like spring wears yellow like laughter is joy’s drunk like the circus has come to town pass the blue cookies, will ya?
Speaking too soon, the bird at the window left there by night and plump the suns of sky of lake of egg yolk of daisy middles and frosting of cookie drops that smell of a higher calling so as to tempt and not bargain, to paint in ways the tongue is painted as though frosted with its fishnet stockings on a side street, two or three dollops of woman no men save for the darkened cars of hard truth and will a twenty do and if I promise the moon does that come off first like raindrops like waterfalls like sweet sugars dance a rumba samba cha cha not by the book a promise of wood get in now, backseat okay, No Name Girl?
You can get lost in a forest in a bottle, in a glass in a white-out, in a book in a run-on sentence that needs a breath or a blue sky green grass, creme brûlée a special sauce you love that requires a tip after a car ride or walk of city blocks in summer when low tide can be appreciated when it flaunts its coastal connections and ruins you for any other man with eyes as blue as that sea any sea he has brought to bed to dinner to the first snow with his maple tongue and hands that cause alarm they are such perfection at the end of green life when he said he wouldn’t and didn’t leave or see another woman or another man or take the dog he knew you loved like Barthelme like shell buttons and cashmere like rich black parrot tulips in their “Oh God, I AM, are you” state of poetry or spell I’ve been looking for that quenches, that stampedes the heart that unbends metal into arrows that ask that man to stay a grand lifetime with his red plaid boxers that don’t hide what makes thirst and fireworks and fountains and the two cymbals oh, Lord, leave the cymbals, too!
At night the trees in the room catch sight of the city in its pink upon black, and running – city and trees and time and crackle midnight with its tight braids of gurgle
and I walk slowly after knowing they will tire
knowing night will fence a while longer in the field of short grasses not yet a rainforest and brandy not yet molded into a glass ocean, simple spreads the room with yips of little dogs that have married slices of bacon in their time
the ferret wants outside I pretend to sleep akin to water cakes on porcelain paper enter leaves narrow broadens
music is wadded into a radio a pasture lopes uphill dinner blinks its la di da salmon, sauce, learning you we buy shares of turtle wings and futures in pistachio coal the clock pays it forward with Tabasco
To My Readers: There is no making sense of this, of course. Oddly, it is not an easy poem style to write. My real dreams are not this convoluted. Thank you for your time. – Skylar
A cool day in mid-spring that came uncommon and quench, an imagined garden grew hearty at the end of summer, the sun gazed through a bird in a tree to see what I wrote, I stopped beside tomorrow to pick up the dawdle of a feather, that spring day that came slow, lazy and magic
Everything almost begins at midnight, save for the dog’s tail, the kettle’s siren, the sun leaving for work, dark splashes – something about puddles draped over the furniture, some lengthy tango with the moon, it’s Sunday now, everything yellow waits its turn at laughter
Tonight, she is sure that she doesn’t come from here, she is certain she is no one’s quench or fizz, she twirls her memories, snow lies in pieces of a spring thought, there is an echo of daisies bumping elbows last summer, ice grows a thick beard past her window, the day weakens to another, it is dawn on Tuesday, it is any day, the porch light blinks – it is too light, it is too dark, it is too light
In the night, I hear gentle caught by the wind, midnight is thick upon a daydream, every scent going somewhere late, he smiles and unlatches a gaze, I arrange parcels of silk, they will mail in the morning
In the saucer – a teacup, in the bowl – a moon, I finger comb a lazy tangle of stars, I was swept by the crisp cool, the first red that made the bush that held up the house that had its last mortgage payment, today
The chimes must move in, the oak will hold up the sky that loosened the leaves that painted my hair that kept the breeze in business
Tomorrow will come in no new shades, autumn will spend its savings pell mell, and come winter the brook will have gently laid down as if a glass monument too tired to stand
I step into the night water feel an old lover saying, No! but he is old when love almost loved, looking up through the water’s milk, over and over I am leaving the seduce until I am gone to a flooding quartz to the hills of silver orchard wine to the bone sky
This rodeo takes me in sandpaper blue, solemn all whiskey dances, my gratitude is resin cracked, peace dangles like a carrot above this trench for one, I know this day, it has the heft of every yesterday, it has the schooling of broken stone walls
The room is no song I have heard, this hypothesis season of cold lexicons leans as if drunk on black wine, I imbibe wreckages, I will not come here again to this jigger of life, this tatter, this strewn, this toss of sentence without trial
Winter stayed that year of one tremendous comma misplaced, the winds found trees unschooled in dance that fell as dominos, I tried saving money and laughter, I bought the happiness of yellow apples and swept pears of dust from under the beds, my fudge sold like springtime
One of these days, it will not be impossible, it will not be fog and hypothesis, and the trees will return from that place they go, puddles will bathe moons, and just when roses can’t be more – they will star
You’re surreal, my oxygen, The tears in laughter, A much needed and a quiet, A shower and a shower – don’t make me decide, And Joe’s Diner for dinner in a booth in a window in love in a romance language sans words