if I ever had a dream
it was not like this / bone split open and blooms /
Tag: Nature
Mes mots dans ce rêve.
The likeness of snow-covered heaps on desert-searing nights
Of a scathing wind that cursed a name and brought it
By the crook of a deserted nest sunbathed by bare hands,
Seducing a whistle to the primeval waters that shoehorn rocks
Reflected with an awakening flutter within a cold room
With lip of ice and loitering hill sides by a pale tide,
blistering with mercy;
“Peregrination” by Lon Barry.
The sun is a bastard
Whom I love. Moon does not understand
I am cheating with soil. The mossbeds rise like breath
The crows do not observe, they do not know I cheat
With worms.
“Dead Garden” by Nick Pipitone.
dried leaves rustle like fading nightmares, an urge to suck in colors before me
“Murmuration” by Tom Alexander.
A hyper-sensitivity of feeling
your art connects across the senses
The roughness of ancient bark
beneath gentle fingertips
A kiss from rock-pool water
warm against bare ankles
“Sketch of Homey Cottage” by edenbray.
undo all the ties.
I fertilize
garden bones as if I would my children
preparing first life
and then the subtlety
the pagala death;
snake and seamstress.
my feet bleed and kiss the ground
upon you, sprouting from
silhouettes; it beguiles
the hassock leaves
stone
in which I am a lady
of ash and hair
“Sudden Goosebumps” by edenbray.
something about you that understands.
this fool
world spun
in cold-blooded
lady i
know you
“Jetty Song” by Tom Alexander.
Her fingers tracing mine
Lily danced me out of the garden
those green eyes brimming lively
with purest abandon
“Another Channel” by Nick Pipitone.
i want to feel connected to Mother Earth –
wet, black soil after torrential rains
swaying tree boughs that yearn to
embrace me like old grandmas
with calloused hands &
toothless smiles
“From Across the Sea” by Tina McFarlane.
Rain from that morning made the amber sand soft and comforting as it covered my toes, like slippers. I knew that I only had a few moments, and I wasn’t going to let anything sour my mood.
All Hallows Eve.
duplicity’s lips are cruel,
he stares in penitential innocence, you fool.
The sea girls.
peyote ripples upon
my father’s hands,
I horde my poems in the melisma
of my bare bones within the arboretum
in the woodland.
Wrist in the woodland
dying alone in
marcescence
“Potpourri” by Ivor Steven.
I have a visiting bluebird
Standing in my potpourri bowl
Bathing in aromatic leaves
Singing a reverie
in their dying, in their shadows.
As the blood-flow
of living things,
dear white shells and white bone
fall into the ground,
mama’s bony fingers
whiten the earth
Let it die.
Turn away from the resuscitations there
the dream warrants the saplings, she
in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands
retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as
I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if
swallowed in the vanity of torpor, a slumber to the tower of ice in the stars alive
