That complete lack of moisturizer
as the wind blew out of control.
Pummeled down to the ground,
chapped chaos kissed my lips.
Supple skin dried out
with one swift gust.
Left starving
to get
soft.
I
will be
creating
a nonet poem
the reverse format
will be my example
in forty-five syllables
this line will have eight syllables
and the final line, nine syllables.
The texture of those black out curtains,
a whistle that ruffles your hair.
Tickling all of your senses
with a shoulder massage.
Tossing and turning
rolling with the
cotton ghosts
through the
night.
Let the night enfold our sacred bond
where shadows softly play for us,
suspending time in moments
of our blissful wishes
and the midnight dreams~
why must daylight
then arrive
and love
end?
A slow motion to smooth a spiral,
at times that is all that it takes.
Never a planned kerfuffle
spinning aimlessly now.
Just a touch of grace.
You give it out,
take it in.
Gently
now…
bee
buzzing
honeycomb
yellow and black
confident fliers
a sticky thick honey
a frenzied experience
drones spend lives pleasing their mistress
theres never room for more than one queen
The poetic image is not an echo of the past. On the contrary: through the brilliance of any image, the distant past resounds with echoes.
– Gaston Bachelard
If memories invade souls and minds,
and mirrors reflect perception,
it must follow that whispers
reach into our psyche,
replaying aural
collages that
echo of
distant
past.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow. " ~ Shakespeare
As fragments of the stars abandoned
the sage of night, my kohl heart bleeds
beside your trembling tombstone,
while soul aches to seize the
fading scents within
the iris of
auroras,
leaving
dreams
and
I, lost
like the speed
of shooting sparks,
twirling above ghosts
in the cemetery
of wild corpse roses, whistling
moonless requiems to ravens
blind to the truth etched in lithium...
Sifting through the same old fusillade,
sorry but you missed your target.
Brushing off the bob and weave,
sent it right back to you.
Can't beat the shadow
who learned to move.
You taught me
to win
out.
What nonet flaunts its lovely derrière?
Then sings with sweet, buttermilk sound—
with shape fully self-aware,
in nine lines? Ass firm, round,
curvaceous with flare:
and so high, bound
for beach wear,
and found,
here?
Here is my loving tribute to you,
You really don't mind if I do,
Send my thankful smiles your way,
Laugh, power to the grey,
After forty years,
You remove fears,
You don't mind,
So kind,
You.......
Caused me to black out from the trauma
My hands shook, letter full of lies
Boxes of my life in yard
No phone, trapped in darkness
Drank away his life
You don't like me
I'm to blame
Home Gone
Now
Mushy insides tend to harden up
if all your oxygen is stopped.
Allow yourself to fall, feel.
All your computations
are as dry as math.
It’s not a sum
when it’s a
pair of
hearts.
Life mirrors the ocean's flow, skimming,
turning, burning, and then churning
below it thrusts and bursts forth
impatiently, then spreads,
searching and reaching
for the unknown,
befuddled,
baffled,
dazed
by
seeking,
pursuing
secret corners,
returning to light
our pathway before it
dives to black recesses
once again obscuring our dreams,
pondering what it cannot resolve.
Forgive genuine apology
when someone has good intention
Letting things go with the wind
can help you rise above
things holding you down
it's not easy
to 'release'
choose to
heal
Heidi Sands
4/13/25
(C)opyright
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