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Alyssa Couture Poem
There she is, rainbow hued, hazy viewed clues.
The whistle chimed waves clear her unspoken throat.
Pardon Lady's wispy tension, a molder of falling sand.
A maker of details form the reality of dreamlife.
It is not man-made, it's spirit.
From one withheld, on a roof full of heating.
It's the heart vision, it's her only heart vision,
The only seer of the whole.
The sea dragon's bucket of snails
make it through the tunnel portal,
and we all gather through.
There Lady then goes,
off to the Wizard's shell. He's cloaked in
red and white, the colors of woman and man.
They're both pleading, seething,
kneeling beside the shelled faces.
Sparks, that near cover her wreathed, flowered, dress of sea flowers.
As iridescent pyramid easter eggs rain down.
Armored in bright lace, the rhythms of twirls and braids shall
claim pertinence to the deep blue whale's song, the whale clothed
in water, salt, and Lady's most hidden dreams.
A Wizard Whale's Lady, protected with beauty.
Zero point with no ego, no confession to claim.
The breathed memory between her salty fingers
lights a candle to rebirth her soul.
Hello my little fellow,
long lost pearly weeping willow,
I've come to find my ocean.
My voice adorned with sight.
I flew to and from her, a maker of undone.
She was veiled in white memory,
a blanket of weight brushed off her.
A flaming moment floating in her watery hoping heart.
Sunk under sun drenched waters,
gazed shackles flew away.
Exceeding through three door frames,
not separate from the grey portrait of a sculpture.
Tightly knit and finely tuned,
with heavy chisels of confirmation.
I will spit if I have to, and then I will cry after.
For I will only listen to my bloody heart.
The emotions are blatant, the tuned in
question that purge's forth,
is more meaningful with an identity gone.
But we are never lost,
we are dreaming in the ocean's Wingdom,
the Angel's castle cloud held tight.
Love,
Alyssa Couture
Copyright © Alyssa Couture | Year Posted 2011
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Alyssa Couture Poem
Raven is a Flower
The floral women speak to chilly wind.
Calling out the ancient remnants penned in golden lace,
milked with cran-embroidered keys.
The grave stones plunge deep into their seats,
worthy by the black flower forest.
The Raven caws, crossing the crimson lake.
Sipping on the stone black tree petals.
Cotton shreds through the fine bedrock.
Ensuing treasured remorse, a winter long story.
The Raven’s cry springs out of the honey baked trees,
from the sun-faced rays.
A fibrous shadow turns inward,
touched by effervescent cran-burned bronze,
and copper covered ivory.
A pause, offering swords of sacrifice.
Tuning into a sight filled with glutted stride.
Copyright © Alyssa Couture | Year Posted 2010
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Details |
Alyssa Couture Poem
I see lips, hear jokes.
I’ve a knowing that’s nothing left forgotten.
I see eyes, know that bite,
now there’s nothing. Nothing left. It’s all forgotten.
I see the tussled angels lifting higher, higher.
Something never to be forgotten.
I see her float, I know this toad.
Everything undone,
is quite impeccably frozen.
Forbidden. And then, remembered.
It’s never been lost, we all remember.
I’ve seen the note, I want to know.
I hear questions, a tight rope’s croak.
A long lust hoax.
Wind or win, choice for choosing.
Float and gush and mush inside the bitter strokes,
oh dear heavenly crazed impressions.
There’s no emotion left for anybody now,
sucked dry until the next wave of confession.
I’ve repeated armored life forms,
bright waves much less surrendered,
May I find that way? No way to figure out,
my doting figures of commotion.
Where’s my rain, three swell hearts?
Instead of fire in the moment,
will be the cloud
be bursting,
be soaking.
Copyright © Alyssa Couture | Year Posted 2010
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