lush green lust

The jungle canopy
may as well leak mist and sweat
Every move is slow motion sticky.
This forest is a never silent sponge
filled with unforgiving cuts and gorges;
populated with bugs that kiss their way to your veins.
Sudden weepy rains;
clingy clothes,
sensuality spawned
from constantly feeling
the need to bathe.
Bathe in these blues, doll.
Huddle in this campfire canvas.
Steam the sheets,
gorge the kissing bugs.
It could be 1930,
we could be explorers.
Navigating the green in a heat induced state of awareness;
we deserve to be anything.

the insanity has begun...

My little sister is getting married tomorrow. As I sit here, looking at my big poofy bridesmaid dress; I'm a bit reflective. Not only do I realize this will probably be my last moment of peace for the next 48 hours, but I'm feeling a wee bit of nostalgia coming on.

I had invented a childhood in my head that was practically perfect. When I was 21 I began dating a guy who started pointing out to me that those times were in fact, far from perfect. He had a way of dredging from the settled sandy bottom, that which I'd chosen to forget...ugly tidbits that tainted the good. What an ass he was.

Anyway, as I toast my sister and her groom tomorrow, I will be thinking of those country days. The good times...escaping to the golden fields, playing hide and seek, family camping trips, days at the beach. The good times must prevail when all is said and done.

I hope so anyway.

heart squared

It's careless time in the city
iconic buildings creep their way
into consciousness
pretty young thangs
with dirty on the mind
traipse about with lust and
dollar signs filling those
big inflated pupils.

beat beat
pained little heart
waiting for a new reality
let me in little heart
we could dance all night long
sing songs of tomorrow
guzzle life in the form of
a drink or two
end up on hot hot sheets
still spewing the intricacies
of what's wrong in this damn ugly world.
(between grope sessions of course.)

kissy kiss little heart
daylight brings the cold hard knock of
truth.
last night was a chimera
you don't know me
you don't have the drive
12 hours of rough dreams and
hard loving
is just about all anyone can stand.

mockingbird

Twitter away little bird
from your perch

outside our window.

Ah, lovely how the sun shines
on your expectant little beak.
Pant away, little twitterer
here is a crumb and a kiss.

The windows sparkle
oh so clear
peer in at lovers
twitter twitter
entwined
twittering
love of the soul.

Allow your thoughts to wander

twitter, twitter mockingbird

would you like to play?

The field is green
the fruit is ripe
and there is plenty of room
in this cage.

here she is

My camera is not the best...but there she is.

Supposedly, the full moon is 12% bigger tonight.

I need to see it for myself.

Unfortunately, the city lights and various buildings are keeping it from me.

This will o' wish is sneaking out. I'll report back.

save her, savior

The scene is moonlit,
the house is desolate.
You’re a midnight explorer.

There…

Her back against the wall,
she sits amidst
sheer pink organza.
A party dress, (so carefully purchased),
surrounds her now.

Hardwood floors are no place for a lady;
the tears say she doesn’t care.
Self imposed sentence,
she wore her best dress
and she’s waiting, waiting
there.

You keyhole peeper
you want to be her.
Well, maybe just hold her
maybe just see her.

Click the lock.
(don’t knock)
Grab the door, get on that floor.
Enchant the party dress prisoner.
Take her hair in your hands
lift her eyes, scream in her ears

wake her
wake her
wake her
wake her.


**I am pretty much sure that this poem is awful. But hey, sometimes what I think is terrible, other people identify with.

This ain't no wine induced haze.

It's time for a night of artistic introspection
I'm wondering why my mind is withering.
Why so unappreciated?
Why is my mind the last thing on anyone's list?
If I had my way,
I would read minds
they're fascinating tidbits
of celestial proportions.

Every brain is racing,
every pair of eyes has potential behind them.

I want to shed my pre conceived notions of every soul I meet.
Why can't I do that?

There are so many layers of thick glossy paint over this girl.
I tell you, I need to take a bath in acetone.

No, this isn't a poem.
It's a ramble. A preamble.