Category: Poetry

into loneliness.

I broke away from the ocean, in through our eyes, the waves at high tides, the roccia parts and splits where Moses split the Red Sea. In the womb of wind,           limbs and bones outline the fading star,      and the world seemed to drown in yellow velleities of loneliness. Eyes to the dream, an echo, a bang      in aqueous shivers, bled … Read More into loneliness.

of memory.

I am dream-bound      to the weeping mother of an ocean shore, my shadow is darker      than the prose tree of mind and desire           a prospect of inner lunacy and death;      the clam’s mouth is lighter between the sun, into the silence of blue willows      to the inmost bones of creation           alone brimming in the mystic moonlight      for … Read More of memory.

“Dear women!” by Offshorewriter.

Sometimes You’ll just be too much of a woman Too strong Too smart Too beautiful And too much of everything! But it doesn’t mean you need to Show yourself less of a man To win his heart Be a crown to a man who accepts You’re too much of everything! Note from Offshorewriter: Visit Offshorewritings.com for more interesting blogs!  To check out more of … Read More “Dear women!” by Offshorewriter.

te amo.

A temblor, a rock by which is drawn together by the little tree in arms of darkness           May darkness;                in the blue perch of the eve,                      to sleep in the burial                           of the star, A leaf falls      pooled on its legs; ersatz silence           in a mind with a hole in it, which un-dreams the deep dark, in the … Read More te amo.

death in the ocean.

Death in the ocean only comes once upon the prose tree in my mind, there is a darkness in the lithe stillness of autumn oaks now gone,                as olive flowers; a fantasy heartless in horizon by Rome hills, a sea of loss      is what we lost before to the ebbing across the fight of mind, let it turn away and leave;      … Read More death in the ocean.

out of reach.

A wish, these solitudes in dark wept, midnight                exits in a dream, torturing you; emerges      in oceans, as if the face of the sea-light                is in a trance of wander, a dark mind urges       this end of game; the half-lit stretch devours death quietly in hyacinth winter as we left;                a rock rises along the carved windfall, disowned by … Read More out of reach.

A sea becomes.

Of one memory, one for the end of the dark does not lie, I will not lie in it; darkness perfused I shut the window; here he bleeds, here he lies, though nothing is there. In furrows, mercy, it is laughable. The Earth succinct in waves in a lonely larva the dead poet’s dreams. Stand under my umbrella, we embrace in impassioned poverty of … Read More A sea becomes.

no promises.

         The sea and mind in gelid movement acquiesces to the euphoria           in the distant laughter      of gradual woven lines of darkness; let it die a thought in the consciousness of bare winter      after dark and dark a derangement in the cold      falls inside glistening      we’re hiding in the silence; I hide within my mind. No promises of mine      … Read More no promises.

a dream that wasn’t mine.

If ever I were to meetthe dream by sea-green eyesas they sleep, a beveled glassyet a reverie, I would imposeupon those that leftin the legs of wombto a leave-taking of melancholyas death alone drownsas the darkened sunset drowns. A sway of dark weeps,the ocean bleeds in the lithe rockswaddled at the surfdebased into what is leftthat cannot die,It was a dream that wasn’t mine. … Read More a dream that wasn’t mine.

“Pretty Little Sparrow” by Lauren M. Hancock.

Warbling, a pretty sparrow, she’s come to visit thee, to spread wonder and good tidings, perfection uttered, pure beauty to be seen. She scratches around the back garden, throwing her head back, intelligent eyes glinting occasionally, she is here with great promise, her effect is really something that needs to be felt to be believed. Suddenly, inspiration flows through your left hand, images, metaphors, … Read More “Pretty Little Sparrow” by Lauren M. Hancock.

My Monster.

In a dream be it my monster in the eyrie of leave-taking be it my death for the throes into the sea; my monster in the dark lassitude unsure but illuminated in which there is the torpid leg of maple sap warmed with hisses of the sea; my monster through branches befalls me.

Flowers for you.

flowers for you bursting like a ghost; red and white violets that were in a market shop your eyes hunted them and they were yours; as the street calls out in loneliness the telephone replays with your voice engraved in a blue marble vase by the sea gone.