"In Touch With Myself"
I can't seem to find her
The reminder of yesterday
I shut my eyes for a few seconds
Only there, can I reach to bear upon her face
The moment I open my eyes
The earth opens and she disappears
Every now and then
Darkness takes form around the blank wall
It brings out a long lost silhouette.
-I inhale a small desire,
reaching and tracing every line left behind.
I Just can't seem to reach her
The girl drowning deep inside
I turn around to look and feel no one by my side
It's been long since she slowly faded away
I gaze into the mirror and miss her every day
For one second past,
I swear she was there.
Lately, I can't seem to find her
That girl I was before
Empty feelings continue to lounge about
Rejecting yesterday away.
-Honestly, I don't know why I bother,
holding on to somebody that is no longer there?
A WISH -- In Memory Of
I wish I could blow air into your little lungs,
The day my daughter brought your stillborn body into this world.
Hold your little body warm,
And tell my little girl you have her cute little nose....
Count your little fingers, and kiss your little toes....
I could look into your daring eyes,
Facing a little boy, who's ready for this world
I could tell my daughter you have her beautiful brown eyes...
Sadly, it’s not like that.
How can I tell my daughter everything will be all right?
When a piece of my heart was stolen with her's,
When giving birth to her son, my grandson
March 25, 2013---- How it Hurts!
O’ how I wish, you entered this world crying
Instead, we're the ones left in tears of sorrow
How I wish you could be,
And not this feeling you left inside
How I wish, God could explain why o' why o' why?
Mostly, I WISH grandma could fix this and make
your mommy feel, the joy she was robbed of.
In memory of my grandson: ---Bael Lesley G.
Born March 25, 2013 --- RIP March 25, 2013
Kyoko walks alone in the morning tide,
comforted for a fleeting moment by salty air.
She feels the same sand between her toes
as when she was a barefoot little girl, in a time
she felt safe, when the eyes of her mother protected her
like a suit of armor - before the mighty wall of water,
the “harbor wave”, towered over her village
near Fukushima, washing her happy childhood away.
Her dear mother, her security, her everything
never came home that day.
Many months later, her father, a local fisherman,
has lost his ability to cry, laugh or tell her why.
His silent eyes, cold like frost, are dead
like the poisoned fish he nets every morning.
In many ways, Kyoko lost both of her parents
on that haunting day - forced to grow up long before
the water receded, before the nuclear leak,
before this new, austere existence.
Night deepens the despair. She is loneliest
when darkness invades. She prays for the crickets
return. They no longer sing her to sleep, and the stars
have faded, no longer shining through her open window.
Even the grasshoppers have died…
from restless sleep, night calls her to the mirror
to find her mother’s dark eyes staring back at her –
a curse she hopes will one day become a blessing,
a hope that one day her father will look at her again...
With tomorrow, her greatest burden will return.
She will wake along side the broken-winged butterfly
with her duties in mind. Then, she’ll wear her stoic face
to the marketplace. Father says he will soon lose
his fishing boat. She has heard visitors from the city say
only a fool would eat the fish from nearby waters,
the same fish she fries most every day. No one knows
the global impact, they say. She hears foreign words
like radiation, disease and mutation while she sells
the shiso and wasabi root from their garden stand,
feeling fear she does not fully understand but one day will.
She only knows how to survive today…
For Debbie Guzzi's Global Poetry Contest, 11/19/14
Sometimes between the lines,
trembles the silence of unspoken goodbyes,
expectant and charged, like a theater scene,
in the moments before the curtain rises.
In a dream that I've had,
you are southward bound, so it must be early autumn,
which, fades to sheer, then disappears.....
Debris fills the gutters, and the shades are drawn
Wild thorn-berries have been picked, all the branches are bare.
And through limbs of old questions, and tall, knotted trees,
Limbs filter regret with a light, between
Leaves are adrift, as if disturbed,
littering the speachless sky
along with unfettered words,
that clamor against the leadlight of a window,
pleading to be heard.
Crushed leaves are swept away,
by a bridled hesitation.
No summer aria has been sung,
and the words go unsaid.
Leaves fall straight to the ground,
and the light leaves the world.
The red velvet drape descends,
leaving unfettered leaves, and unsaid words, bereft, in the dark.
For The Contest "Vibrant Verse" Sponsored By Charlotte Puddifoot
You’re dressed in gray, and
tattered like the clouds
that hover above you.
with the look of a person
who knows of his own
Like the willow that cradles
dawn's mist of unwept tears—
a practiced sorrow,
earned from decades of watching
the slow meandering river,
as it draws closer,
and the banks weather and fall.
That Day, Life Crushed
I was resting on a lake dock that was in deep decay
it ran fifty yards out into the seamless water
that day my baby brother had went to swim with his friends
a normal summer day that shone with splendor
and peaceful was the soft blowing wind
only fate was awake and moving ever foward
there I was in peaceful solitude , resting
gazing at the lapping waves as they spoke
ignorant of what had taken place only moments before
the passing of a young and promising life, my brother
sun still beamed, wind still blew and life changed
a truck came racing across the bridge
I saw my best friend waving at me franticly
then I heard, I knew tragedy had befallen somebody
somebody I loved dearly
Moments later, the force of truth crushed me into a ball
it was as I feared, a death, an unimaginable horror
my baby brother was dead, my fourteen year old baby brother
gone, gone , gone!
Electric current had destroyed his life
destroyed my life, sent me into a seven year rage
I said my goodbyes in a quiet rage and vowed that God,
God would pay for this!
And so it began a terrible journey into a dark abyss
one that consumed and slowly ate my soul
my soul it ate with relish and glee
I became a punisher of God!
Yes, such misery did I heap out by the bucket
by the ton and ate it's glory until-
Seven years later, light came into me as I slept
I woke one morning to find that the one punished was ME!
God had told me but I refused to hear
Now I heard and that truth crushed me again!
The road back took time but seven long years was over!
life returned, joy returned!
Majestic love returned to reclaim it's treasure-- my soul!
My soul rejoices to this day,
this day I see God stayed with me as I ran away!
I, he that runs no MORE!
Robert J. Lindley 06-30-2014
My first ever write about my brother, Billy Joe Lindley
fourteen year old and the girls adored him,
that summer electrocuted by a faulty electric pump at a
friend's house by the river.
1976, I think about him every day since, he was an angel compared
to me and why, why did I live!
I feel that some
people have a hard
with the truths
not only the sexual
abuse by priests,
but all the bad
I call it chosen
Ignorance is found
in people who,
if confronted with
realize that they
have to accept them
and that frightens
It is too hard,
Braise me down to a pit of abysmal.
Your balance ego
Keeps me on the void
Tainting my walls
Behind your back.
“The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.”
----- “Portrait of a Lady;” T. S. Eliot
A golden afternoon,
Late October, and my thoughts
Are all of you, Suzanne…
Vestiges of your being
Appear on visages of
A hundred different people;
But none are you, not one
As green, as golden.
Hard it is to know no miracle
Will mend, no giddy hope assuage,
The scourge that slowly puts an end
To our valiant green and golden girl.
Memory takes us to days of indolence,
Of innocence, of children lying on a levee,
Deep in lush, green, summer clover --
In sunlight almost as golden
As your hair -- beside a flowing river
Bearing away our golden hours
And the painless green of youth.
Now, in your green room, reclined
In shadow, our golden girl reposes.
Your courage lights the coming night
That does not dim the gold and green
You always shared, and still you share.
Dear members of Poetry Soup, here I present my most awesome poem to date.
It is best appreciated while listening to my mate Andy's recital.
So please open-
and read along.
When the sanctuary
Of sunlight sinks
And dark shadows
Lay across your thoughts
Scrape against your reason
In your mind
Out beyond your vision
In the darkness of the hour
Your doubts stir
Foul damning words
That pierce you
Slicing through your certainty
Severing the flow
Of your integrity
Spoken so close
They breeze past your ear
And settle like ice
On your dignity
Sounds of movement so near
That doubts brush
In the gloom
Your every mistake
Real and imagined
Your honest intentions
Lost in the darkness
Surrounded by doubts
From hidden self
Torn from your chest
When the sanctuary
Of sunlight rises
And dark shadows
Are chased from your thoughts
Massage your reason
A Summer To Remember
Summer exhausted, the fall chill begins
in those first days you and I fell
into each other as water into the sea
sunshine was you, light was all me
Winter's snows saw us meet its deep cold
a team that danced in that icy glory
sweet ink wrote our special story
Spring, our lives embraced a great renewal
beautiful pictures sought we out
tempting each into adventurous journeys
Summer returned, I found your shadow had fled
our love emerged from its sheltered cocoon
seeking love anew, its past left dead
in the depths of sorrow,
beneath a flood of doubts.
unable to surface,
I frantically search
for what weighs me down;
I feel nothing,
but the burden of guilt
that fills my soul
and then I realize
©Ana Espinola Collins
You walk through my thoughts
With the same sure-footed command
You walked through the house.
Your pitter-patter of feet
Pounds like a drum in my head.
No bowl in your special corner...
You thrive on the meat of my mind.
No wrinkles on my bed
Where your purring body slept...
Just my heart, crumpled
By the weight of your absence.
That flashed warmth like a smile
Now bring hot tears
To my eyes in remembrance.
My lap is empty and cold...
It cannot hold memories
Full and warm,
Alive with your image
And the comfort you were.
You walk through my thoughts...
And the pain of your footprints will pass.
© Sandra M. Haight 2014
All Rights Reserved
Contest: Animal Poem
Sponsor: Regina Riddle: Judged 9/30/2014
The fog sets in as the gloom of pain and anger creep over the hill side reaching out to us, Engulfing our hearts and minds with hate towards the ones that cause us so much grief, Wishing we could step in and reflect the damage done to those we care so dear about, Unable to replace the horrid memories we sooth them as best we can, Digging deep within their souls trying to sew back each string bit by bit....Torment in our lives cause misery beyond belief, All we ask for is pure joy and happiness, No such thing is bestowed upon anyone even those who deserve it, Stab the pain givers in their hearts with mental abuse of anguish in which they've given...make them suffer for the hurt they leave in their wake, Close your eyes...visions of how to ravage anothers body with your own torture deep within your mind, Actions wish to unleash such thoughts but alas we are stuck standing in front of the mirror as we bleed from the tear duct of our eyes, Hold strong be there for them...it's all we really can do anymore.
It’s not what she hears that day
No. It’s what she sees,
The image very nearly killed her
The neighbours say the scream was heard two blocks away
Though she can’t recall hearing what was said
No. It’s what she sees alright
Even to this day, she can feel the envelope
She can see the “WESTERN UNION” through the milky window
She can see the “THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS…”
What she doesn’t hear, is what the Telegram Boy had to say
She still has the Telegram
Its yellow parchment a little brittle, the typed words
“HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON…” a little smudged, tears she guesses
Though she doesn’t remember any tears, they came later
Along with the pain of not knowing, and the sorrow of knowing
Then almost a year to that day, it’s not what she hears
But what every mother would want to see
What every mother would want to feel
And every mother would dearly love to hear
“Hello mum, I’m home…”
8 May 2015
Craig Cornish’s Poetry Contest “A Mother’s Ears”
They walk through the doors
Of a city so barren
A walkway so cracked
And the wind it's so cold
Jump over the mountain
Get lost in the forest
Get treated like cargo
And swallow some pills
Is it you in the corner
With those chattering teeth
With pants that don't fit you
Was it you I heard screaming
With nightmares uncounted
And the violence within you
It's a fight you didn't start
Lord send us an angel
With a knack for compassion
And an ear that will listen
To the mentally ill
By Kyle Ezra Kriticos
cluck! cluck!! cluck!!
He hammers a nail into the hardwood,
wiping sweat from his brow as the scorching sun prides itself in the middle of the sky.
He examines a curve on the casket he is making,
he is dissatisfied, he grabs a chisel and begins to chisel away carefully.
As every splinter of wood falls to the ground he nods his head in satisfaction,
he stops to wipe more sweat from his brow
he mutters something to himself,
looks up to the sky angrily and curses the heavens for the heat.
But isn't it man who brought the sun closer?
well, that is what the govt official who came to our village told us,
"global warming" he called it.
I wonder why he labours so hard to make this ugly reminder of death look perfect,
the dead do not care about aesthetics,
I do not think they care so much what happens to their bodies here bury it, burn it, they get a new one either way.
Silent in the darkness of each breath..inhaling this air we feed to the lungs within the beast of our inner torment, Ever cautious ever alert our presence creeps across the meadow as the mist protrudes from around us.. If only this demon could be sworn off, killed and defeated, left and feeling nothing to suffer in its own mindlessness, Yet we stand as it rips, tears and grows within us.. Changing our souls for everything it was once worth to something it turns into pure hate in a nightmare of a world, If we can't be ourselves...Then who can we truly be, We walk a fine line as the edge slips away from us we stumble to find ourselves within fighting off this beast...nothing we can do....nothing anyone can do...less we kill off the demon with the blade of our pure selves ripping its heart out and feeding it to our gorge of an abyss, If we can't be ourselves..then why try to be anything at all....haha..you will never be anything of any worth till you fend off the one thing that binds you to your own hate..your anger merely feeds it giving it strength as it grows within you, Stay strong and make the demon bleed...there's no rest for the wicked things that linger in your lives.
Sitting here inside myself I suffer from the air around me as it steals my breath, Wonder if anyone notices this pain tormenting me so...I'm vulnerable around him and he can't even see it, this thing deep within, It burns so bad I can't stop it, My melody has left my soul as the inspiration abandons me with the sound of his footsteps leaving. Gone from my range of hearing, my knees buckle beneath me as I think of those who replace me, Those who are better off with him than I, My stars dull in the sky as my world falls apart, There is no light to break up this dark around me..No more looking at him to help spread my wings, They simply tremble an fall to the earth, His beauty no longer holds me up...this distance kills my heart every beat it takes, the fading of the colors engulf me I no longer see my dream.
Torment of lingering whispers from the ones we love stray in our minds, Each tear that breaks away our flesh cracks as it streams down our face, Their warm hug that once held us tightly in the cold and lonely days faded into the wind, You stand on the bridge looking down as the ice water rushes downstream, Shattering winds shred at our skin with horrid things on our mind of their touch from the lips you once knew so well, Your eyes close as you turn away from the water...hands embraced together as you hold you heart, One last tear slipping away as you plummet fast toward the ice, The splash engulfs you, The darkness beneath calling forth your body to the bottom as you drown in its abyss of ravaging wrath, So much pain we all live in we can only try to live with it and move on.
Surrealist’s funeral is held in the air,
yet, his coffin is not carried by a supersonic speed plane
flying through the open sky—altitude higher than the stratosphere,
gazing at the sun or a blimp drifting away, in the air, in a leisurely way, looking down upon the earth
but on a cloud pulled by an old eyeless pack-horse(1)—
the horse lost his eyes stealing a glance
on a flawless beautiful naked goddess on a moonlit night,
surrounded by a dense fog that makes everyone unable to see
the sky or the earth.
The funeral procession, though no one follows, we hear the wail,
someone must have crept up from underworld or descended from above, they follow the funeral procession.
As the sadness long held in a heart bursts,
the wail becomes louder and when it becomes louder,
furious Zeus frustrated from failing to rape a mortal maiden,
condemns the mourners “why the wail, impudent mortals!”
and casts thunderbolt to pierce the heart of earth, then
the deafening roar grows louder and swallows the mourners’ wail.
As the mourners’ wail die down
dark clouds rush together in the sky,
they pour onto the wilderness and become a torrential rain.
The water rises, the mountain floats, time heaps up high;
a lonely boat passes through between streetlight poles
lower than the river bed; when all the waters
have poured into the sea a rainbow appears,
but it’s odd! only three primary colors hangs on
the mountaintop, as if it wants to say something on its mind.
As rainbow fads away, Apollo hastens through a clear sky
driving his golden chariot chasing game;
I would rather hold my children’s corpses
fallen from Apollo’s merciless arrows in my arms
and become a lifeless rock with the never ceasing tears(2)
than to live long as the weight of a handful of dust
withering, shrinking and decaying under his blessing.(3)
Is that why, the surrealist’s corpse
pulled by old eyeless pack-horse strikingly resembles
a blasphemous artist wearing a pointed-up mustache
with gold-chained melted watch in his vest pocket?(4)
Is that why, though his body is eaten by the worms(5)
not able to obtain Peter’s sanction(6) to enter either paradise or hell?
Is that why, he is wandering in the air(7) surrounded by
a thick cloud holding a piece of saecula saeculorum
with disabled two fingers stripped off from
the mustached artist’s distorted watch?
Note: 1. Tiresias 2. Niobe 3. Cumaean Sibyl 4. Dali 5. Baudelaire 6. Matt 16:19
Life is bountiful, pure and rich entwined around roots of corruption of tainted hate. Spreading ones wings means to be lifted by others to help them rise into the sky's above, Blissful is our soul ignited with fury of lustful woes, We take flight among the clouds soaring high above as the birds whisper in our ears songs of graceful fears, When all else fails and our wings fall fast our hearts keep us afloat in this big blue vast, Playing with the wind as it embraces us we twirl in its draft as the dark cloud lurks nearer, Dark in its deepest point the cold wind blows as trickling water falls from its abode, Landing on our flesh it smacks with great force knocking us breathless as we plummet to the earths floor, In these waking hours we are reminded that not all great things last, but that in some hard times there can be good times..even when pain may lead our sorrow into a happy place.
The black side of a life betrayal and choked dreams
Cries of pain that are locked into their souls
Evil twistfate deals aches and screams
Inside darkened dungeons filled with peril and woe
In the trap, feels like stuck in of eternity madness
Hands are not chained but mind is unclear
Hidden away from the world today within darkness crying
Nightmares of life's perils strike deep irons hotly burns
Blowing with the wind, flying a hurricane
Shamelessly all trying to live from day to day
Frozen ice frosting bites cold deeds creeps inside scars
Slowly from the scrapyard of life's twisted metal crushed
They cried many tear, tears of hope - wanted life to last
But life was not fair enough as the remains lay deeply covered
Unraveling out savagery of an animal cold cutting steel beast cursed
Piercing howls forgiving the past in order to be redeemed blessed
A co write written by Liam Mcdaid and
Anne-Lise Andresen :) - 20.01.2015 -
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
The sweetest sounds of burning trees
A gentle stroking in the breeze
The calm has lasted past the storm
Cloudy visions, Satan’s roar
Too many sights have passed my way
A time found only in the haze
The softest screams are running bare
My aching bones creak as I stare
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark
The battle’s started at the end
No one is coming to repent
The sinners grab their wine from prey
No judgment calling here to stay
The sport is reckless to be told
The one is laughing at his souls
It falters nowhere to be sure
The power grows forevermore
Like a spirit in the wind
I have no say in where you’ve been
But cross the line to come to me
And pay the price for ecstasy
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark.
Inhale an envious mask upon your castrated
and prompt this necessary illusion to commence.
Bathe yourself in ego-filled waters till you feel superior
to the gavel, and exit without caution from this perfect
prison called home.
The audience of youthful flattery awaits you, and those
who you hunt,
Anticipate your roar, and contemplate a permanent
Masquerade around the elementary wheels of
transportation, and make sure your crown has no opposition.
Be seated in the rear levels of mischief, and target those
who sit angelically, in frontal silence.
Remember to grin until your devilish smile has a
And act without tears, your greatest show without
Be ignorant to punctual chimes that sing, and lean on
absent temptation for comfort.
Show patience for the perfectly weak; allow them their
steps upon the wax floors,
Give them their fairy tale of safety.
For they are dreamers, and you are their scheduled
Enter classrooms initially through the minds of prey.
Let them introduce the beast without forethought,
Observe their careful whispers among the intellectual
And standby till their guard sleeps.
Lastly, steal the eyes of misery from your contemporaries
as you walk in, and sit among the walls of miseducation.
For knowledge is not the vocation you seek.
Only the beauty of suffering can compensate your lust.
Begin by insulting the eager minds that roam
brilliantly in the front row.
Shout high praises from hell, belittle their flawless
And bear no breaks of mercy until tears fall.
Now shift your heinous gears toward the everlasting
prom queen, your unrequited distraction.
She does not lean towards you, therefore you must
harm her pedestal as well.
Do not hesitate to disarm this glow that will never
infiltrate your surroundings.
Confirm that your motions are approved, by the
council of expulsion,
And give them infamous leeway to imitate in your
Reminisce joyfully over sin that will never turn pure,
as you return home.
Remove the wool from your eyes, and follow sorrow
till it wants no hint of you any longer,
A similar thought entertained by parents you forever
Lastly, if you urge beyond repair, and accept that the
sheep you threaten everyday will never turn,
Despite your purpose,
Then feel free to act as those that previously harmed,
And contemplate a permanent departure.
May god bless these faithful carriers of misery.
R.I.P. William Dale Eubanks
d. July 1, 2012, aged 68 yrs., Tennessee Ridge, Tennessee
Death came as no surprise
the first Sunday in July;
it claimed you, on a ridge in Tennessee,
with kin who took you in and waited with you
through the last hard days.
You kept what fears you had well hid,
did not betray with loud complaint
the fate you could not but know awaited.
A smile, a joke, a hug – exotic meals –
And genuine interest greeted all you met.
And you were, certainly, never boring
but well-traveled and smart
beyond the telling.
We’ll miss your wit, your bright demeanor,
and will remember all you freely gave ---
and what you took from us
with your passing.
A truth in rage of insult furrows my mind
For it is only an offense given to me by myself
In the mouths of others far innocent than I
I feel the tears trickle down my cheeks
For I have surfaced into an ugly mistake
I am always inadequate in this brain
I try to shine like the advice of grace given
But confidence rarely rears its head my way
There’s a sort of shade blocking its way
A shade that darkens everyday
That very shade led me to believe my feelings are wrong
That I will never belong so long as they are not controlled
I must be careful—for the lines of love and lust run cold
I hate myself truly this night
And no one but myself will give me the right
The very right to degrade my every being
Because you are not seeing what I am seeing
There is no point
My lines run cold
Can I be so bold as to say
I still love with a pang of indistinguishable doubt
All feelings enter in
As my truth blurs and checks out
Your words pierce me so deep
I cannot describe the pain I feel
God it hurts so bad
It can’t be real
Much like the love I have come to embrace
The very love that links to your face
Tears don’t give it justice
It can’t be real
Much like the love I will never face
The missing light,
That love comes again...
Are like a hard glide,
In a shining rainbow's light...
All dreams and fantasies,
Can be reality,
Is based on reality...
But all histories aren't the same...
Sometimes, we dive,
In our lives...
For what you see,
For what it is...,
'Cause time passes,
But, memories remain...
To your heart,
The body, does,
The mind, thinks,
And, the heart, feels...,
While, the soul, lives...
To remember the past,
To live the present,
And to wait and pursue the future...
Listen to your heart,
Before you are telling goodbye,
Might lead to demise...,
But, remember that destiny can be changed...
Life is unpredictable,
But space and time,
Could be controlled...
And even if some die,
We may survive...
Might have an endless beginning...
All that remains,
Is to be reborn...
Hounds from Hell take their toll on your soul
as you walk the mainstreet of mainstream
and watch Saturn and Neptune dance to a simple tone
of silence in the outer space.
As you sit in the middle of the world
free yourself from the sense of hopelessness,
only see yourself in the mirror of deception
as your reflection laughs at you and looks right through you,
and doesn't have remorse for what it says or does to you.
Hounds from Hell take your soul,
chock you, cut of your air,
the smog and fog blind you in the city of ash.
Hear the hounds from hell howl for your soul,
go now, barracade your soul behind sins and temptation,
Alone, listening to your soul die away,
watch love go away from you, with suitcase in hand,
picture frames broken and collect dust through the sands of time.
Till the cleaning lady comes on Monday, to clean the mess
that you left behind.
You are gone, without a trace of ever returning.
Looks of the Hounds of Hell came for you and stole you from
comfort and warmth,
till the sorrowed heart cracks and pain spills out
and you look at it all spill out over the floor.
The Hounds from Hell have paid a consumable harmage to you,
and your rich soul of sorrowness burns away... slowly.
Fear darkens souls,
innocent souls burn with a new day,
a slumber that has no end
with nightmares haunting every light of hope
there is left in this desolate Wasteland.
Fear and darkness tears a hole in the darkened universe
and we all go to hell to see the Hounds,
who come for us all.
The graveyards fill,
and death guards the tombstones of the dead,
and the flowers burn away on the feet of the dead.
She is the fish-maiden of the night,
a temptress that croons to the sky
wading on gills of fondled thoughts,
the bearer of one fine shipmate’s doom
coasting on forbidden passion and trance.
On waters’ edge before the stars pale,
her body swivels before an ensnared time
of charmed maneuver , a hesitant prowl;
till the gentle fondness weeps a lonely desire.
Laying her man on the crib of soft navel
an aching dusk breaks a mermaid's tune ;
his breath gasping against the shore
while she clings to a howling wind,
pleading for rescue into deep cave of moss.
Suzanne Delaney's Mermaids