Something about Moonlight

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Image by Theresa Otero from Pixabay 

Something about Moonlight

I will moonlight to melt your nightgown,
shearing away the shear cream lace
from your cocoa butter-oiled skin,

leaving only our want laid bare
and plain in the pale, made flush and
flesh ripens with readiness,

follicles forced to attention,
energy flowing to the epidermis,
primed to exchange forces

that brought us closer than now,
the point of no return with my fingers
clenching your throat as you implore me

to bite the nape of your neck again
– this time like I mean it – and so
mid-thrust, I lean in and you moan

my name, each moan piling-upon
the last thrust, building a rhythm until
it becomes a chant and percussive covenant

between you and I, building until
you yell my name loudly, impatiently,
shaking me from my moonlit vision…

“Where were you just now?” you ask
between sips of chamomile tea, nearly spilling
it on your makeshift pajama sweatpants.

“I was telling you about the lace negligée I was
going to wear to surprise that jerk Eric before
he dumped me for that bimbo Twyla via text.”

“Sorry about that,” I offer,
adjusting my seat at the foot of your bed,
careful to conceal my erection from you.

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask, adding
“It was weird. You spaced-out and started
mumbling something about moonlight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I insist.
“You need me. I’m here for you,”
which was true; I am here. For. You.

You continue ruminating about Eric; “I mean,
can you believe that guy? The sad part?
I’m more disappointed than surprised.

I should’ve seen it coming.”

“Sometimes, when the heart is involved,
we only see what we want to see,” I reply,
trying to elude imagining you

in that lacy getup again.

“And Twyla, of all people!” you continue,
spilling tea down your chin as I
resist the urge to lick it off.

“Some friend she turned out to be, right?
She must live to pounce on my table-scraps.
Can you imagine pretending to be a friend

just so you can sneak in on the sly like that?
I mean, how shameless! Who even does that?”

“Lust makes folks do strange things,” I tell you,
offering a napkin for your spilled tea,
now drizzling down the nape of your neck

where I wish you’d implore me
to bite like I meant it. I sigh, adding,
“What can I say? People be trippin’.”

“Not you though,” you assure me with a warm
smile. “I tell you I got dumped, and you’re here
in less than ten minutes, consoling me.

You’ve always been a good friend to me.”

“I’m nothing special,” I deflect,
returning your smile, “but I’d do anything
for you.”
***

Written for Real Toads The unreliable narrator prompt, hosted by Björn. As this is one of my favorite tropes to read and write, I had to participate.

Fractions

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Photo by Amanda Flavell on Unsplash

Fractions

Even now, forces battle for fractions
of light and dark, air and earth, truths and lies
the spoils, ripened treasures and abstractions
like oil, our foods, as humankind’s soul cries
split to the bone in factions
honed for overreactions

My soul’s not known for overreactions
compressing, sealing night into fractions
of morbid amusement, viewing factions
through porous veneers of their willful lies
unmoved by their biased cries
on currents of abstractions

Our sun will yield to night and abstractions
leaving the void and overreactions
light evening showers won’t drown-out the cries
of justice-seekers sliced into fractions
divided by clever lies
blinded factions fight factions

I welcome rain as night deceives factions
truth is our souls are merely abstractions
these lines dividing us all are sad lies
gains of few, fueled by overreactions
many fight over fractions
immune to his brother’s cries

I remain in-tune with my brother’s cries
but turn a deaf-ear to brother’s factions
I see us whole, and not just the fractions
bellies are filled by more than abstractions
stilled by overreactions
humanity’s fate still lies

I wonder which side will win through the lies
will we have our peace or feast on war-cries?
I still observe the overreactions
blackening hearts into soulless factions
they have killed for abstractions
weighing lives by the fractions

I wonder which lies will fell the factions
silencing the cries; soulless abstractions
overreactions leaving fractions.
***

Written for dVerse  Poetry Form: Sestina, hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. Other poets have contributed to this prompt here. The Sestina is an oily form, super-tricky to pull off, like Jello-wrestling a sexy, nude, female vampire who’s riding a velociraptor. Naturally, I had to give it a go (the poem, not the Jello-wrestling, though I’d probably be game for that too.)

Also sharing at Real Toads

gripping the path like we ain’t gettin’ no younger

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Image by Ichigo121212 from Pixabay 

gripping the path like we ain’t gettin’ no younger

master bedroom,
tinted garden-green
with golden glints
of morning

sun rises
with my grip
on the circle of
your hips

we circle back
to forest-hidden roads
traveled in youthful
exuberance

wizened
upon shared intimate
garden paths

wicked giggles
yield the voice-box
to guttural yearnings
***

Written for dVerse Quadrille #85 – Raising our Poetic Voices, hosted by whimsygizmo. Other poets have contributed here.

Also shared at Real Toads The Tuesday Platform, hosted by Rommy.

 

For Twilight Comes

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Jupiter, above my backyard, at dusk (Image by author)

For Twilight Comes

The light fades from view, draining sky of its blue
sooner today than yesterday, upon dimming
clouds’ late summer shrug. A youngling’s

paradoxically mature leaves reflect retreating light
greater than majestic firs, but it too will yield
to darkness, youthful promise embraced by

earth’s shade. A confused rooster serenades
our good earth’s face turning away from our day.
He is joined by pampered, overfed dogs,

for the coyote song was forever silenced by
boxy condos where wetlands once came alive
at this hour. After the golden hour became

a greying sliver, the hues bowing-out,
merging with dusk till it is unclear where
one fence ends, and another begins,

all becomes clear and fair as shades of grey
fade to black, leaving only twinkling untouched
overhead, for twilight comes for us equally.
***

Written for Real Toads Weekend Mini Challenge: Let Evening Come, hosted by  Kim M. Russell.

When Twilight Drapes Herself Around Me

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Photo by Daniel Olah on Unsplash

When Twilight Drapes Herself Around Me

Summer sunsets are the laziest, followed leisurely by dusk layering softer, dimmer pastels as if Saturday were being saturated by a steady drizzle of chocolate sundae topping, even lingering as prelude to indigo, with tree leaves reflecting slivers of light, giving them an ethereal glow, and as roosting birds sing to replace loneliness with companionship, adding their voices to the frogs in the pond beyond the vanishing horizon, I smile in gratitude of her unhurried transit.

westward moving sun
carrying her solar tides
twilight consumes me
***

Written for Real Toads Weekend Mini-Challenge: Summer Solstice, hosted by Toni Spencer.

Day 30: Ode to Muse Called Lust

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Image by Saulius Rozanas from Pixabay 

Ode to Muse Called Lust

Though our rain could flood the sea

I’ll not have you reigning free

But reining into fantasy

Rain or shine, you liberate me.
***

Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 30 prompt:  write a minimalist poem. “What’s that? Well, a poem that is quite short, and that doesn’t really try to tell a story, but to quickly and simply capture an image or emotion. Haiku are probably the most familiar and traditional form of minimalist poetry, but there are plenty of very short poems out there that do not use the haiku form.”

Also written for Real Toads’ day 30 prompt: “Write a poem in praise of a source of inspiration — your muse, your life, your own web of thoughts, your dreams or sleeplessness, your daily tasks, a favourite artist or musician, nature and environment, et al. Also, let’s keep it between 30-60 words — there is a certain beauty in brevity after all.”

The poetry gods have spoken, and the word is brevity.

This was a challenging, but fun NaPoWriMo. Thank you to all my fellow poets who participated and/or offered feedback.

This month, I eclipsed one-thousand views for the first time ever in all my years of hosting a poetry blog. Obviously, I don’t do this solely for the views, but it’s good to know that my silly little stories from this corner of the world are being read globally.

I chose not to reply to any comments for the duration of NaPoWriMo, hoping to focus all my energy on creating (hopefully) quality poems. I’d like to take this time to thank you all for taking time out your days to send some love my way. I truly appreciate it more than I can say. Thank you, my friends, and I’ll see you soon.

(Yeah, I know I owe you one more poem. I haven’t forgotten!)

Day 27: Tricks of Light on a Spring Night

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Photo by Esteban Lopez on Unsplash

Tricks of Light on a Spring Night

Blossoms on my favorite tree seem luminescent.
Alas, they only capture their last moon beams.
***

Written for Real Toads 27th day prompt: “Write a two line poem in which you convey some startling image, an image that juxtaposes two images.”

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to “remix” a Shakespearean sonnet, and that’s something I’ll never feel confident doing.

Day 16: Poetry as Visible Steam

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Photo by Maria Teneva on Unsplash

Poetry as Visible Steam

That iconic church
catching fire
is not upsetting.

Firebombing
less-iconic black churches
is not upsetting.

Random hate crimes
against minorities
is not upsetting.

A murder of another
based on who they choose to love
is not upsetting.

Having a government leader
with no empathy, no tact,
no impulse control, no shame,
no fundamental grasp of science,
not even the service of
an official proofreader
or spellchecker
is not upsetting.

Passing the tipping-point
of human-aided
catastrophic climate change
with a collective shrug
and a doubling-down
of business-as-usual
is not upsetting.

What is upsetting
is the growing numbness
incinerating our
collective superstructure.

What is upsetting
is realizing that faith in humanity
was firebombed decades
before observation,
like a lobster having no idea
they’re slowly being
boiled alive
until there’s steam.

What is upsetting
is our growing detachment
from the humane.

What is upsetting
is catching yourself wondering
what the victim did to provoke
such violent hatred
before remembering
that all they did was
have the audacity
to exist.

What is upsetting
is that a hilariously-terrifying,
poisonous, treasonous,
wood-rot-brained,
dementia-demigod
is executing the will
of a percentage of people
I call neighbor.

What is upsetting is receiving
such an oppressive influx
of terrible things,
that the nervous system
reflexively shuts down
to protect itself.

What is upsetting is knowing that,
even after adjusting cosmic perspective,
knowing that no one is coming
to save you from yourselves,
compelling you to root for the
sweet, sweet probability of a
random extinction meteor.

What is upsetting
is slowly realizing that
nothing is upsetting anymore.

Not even when the steam is visible.
***

Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 16 prompt: “write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane.” Again, I took license and adjusted the scale, as I’m running dry on mundane topics and I’m a bit sleep-deprived and grumpy.

Also written for Real Toads’ day 16 prompt: “poetry as an insurgent art”.

luminous coven of midnight gypsy moths

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Moth-Woman
Luke Eidenschink
Used with Permission

luminous coven of midnight gypsy moths

her magic flavors fertile night
among lightless thickets
moonlight seeping from sybaritic palms
transmuted into diamond-dust
as it rises to the Moth King’s pale coat
merging

only
monolithic haystack audience
bear witness to
what mage commandeers or defers
which berthed witch
sorcerer or summoner

shadow trails enchantress’ past
ripened midnight transcendence
seasons her fermented moon
***

Written for Real Toads Art FLASH/ 55!, imagined By Kerry O’Connor.

the loneliest part (is knowing)

the loneliest part (is knowing)

knowing is the loneliest part
(for it is knowing
that you are
alone)

it’s lighting the wick after dusk
(the wick’s initial spark
cutting through tangled
colorless murky thickets)

my lantern lights a moonless night
unknown banished from amber sphere
(my amber sphere is weak
and clearly finite)

margins of its influence dim
(for the margins are too frail to divine)
beyond lies entangled nothings
randomly pierced by pricks of light

(each nothing entangled
as knotted terrain; each pin-prick
of light, a home or villa)

each, a distant lonely lantern
(each lantern,
a wick’s spark,
cutting)

lighting a range; the loneliest part
(for the loneliest part
is in knowing they are
alone;
surrounded by loved ones,
they may not know it,
but they are,
utterly and completely
alone)

look to the sky and you’ll find more
of lanterns lit eons ago
(eons later,
their light dots darkness
like notes from sheet-music)

each one a voice; an unheard song

living verse that died without bridge
(for the living verse we hear
leads to a divine bridge,
a cosmic chorus of a song
heard in its entirety only by
the Infinite,
the Alpha,
and the Omega)

unrehearsed, the ballad plays on
its meaning dims where our light ends
knowing is the loneliest part

(for knowing this
is knowing that
I am alone)
***

Inspired by this Oatmeal comic and this tweet.

Shared at Real Toads

Happy New Year, everyone. See you in 2019.