Notes About The Poem
for Hiya Sharma's Contest...
The Bleeding Roses, 1930, Salvador Dali
O Fall, let this lore of love
be the last ~
I have long bled black-veiled
roses of the widow’s requiem,
rambling raw rues
from an aching orchard,
stomaching the sorrow,
barely breathing
a woman’s woe
beneath my flesh,
where every thorn
preserves my pulse
from paranormal peril,
and every petal pauses
to placate the pallid palate,
as the leaf of life
sleeps upon my lip,
staining my skin
with sensuous scents,
reminding my soul
that the twin flame keeps
beautifully b l a z i n g ~
like sunsets
amidst Sphinx’s silence,
kissing the heart’s hideaway
as phoenix-rain
transmutes inner-terrors
into a fearless field
of ferocious flowers
savagely stemmed
to the womb of wounds…
Yet, you, my merciful mentor,
O heaven-sent solace,
appeared
like an indomitable spark ~
when
the pain was inevitable,
sleep unattainable,
the sorrow inescapable,
the darkness unbearable.
You did not heal the painful haven ~
but laid skillfully
an Eden of earth-angel ink,
and the taste of your touch
taught my sky to fight the thunder.
I learned to hold on,
still leaning in,
never letting go,
as neither dusk
nor dawn can delude me…
If this is the final metaphor,
when the soul-stars
dream and die,
f a r e w e l l foliage,
remember ~
I burn
I yearn
I turn
sepia hues, autumnal time,
forevermore,
bride ~
eagle-feathered sun…
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