I listen to the waves sighing,
like words seized from the weary,
an island that trembles
to the tune of every tide forged
with artificial aquamarines,
like accolades articulated
with aesthetic lies,
misleading the mindless,
ridiculing the rhythm,
as if we are all blindfolded ~
bleeding ballads of the broken,
borrowed from buried poets,
still breathing amidst their demise…
But if only they knew:
imageless imitation never
impressed the Imagists,
the ones who care
not for rhyme’s retardation ~
that sounds like absolute absurdity.
So tonight, as I write
with granite and garnet,
I long for perfumed light
to school the manipulated rules,
claiming to know it all,
sitting in their emptiness,
unaware of neither
what’s right nor wrong.
I am the unblemished;
I breathe not illusions
embalmed with poison.
I am original ~
a word that no longer is present
in the dictionary of the deceitful…
Dusk is blinding, but champagne illuminates.
—Poet
Champagne Date at Purple Dusk
Purple champagne and candlelight.
Dusk’s hue through flutes; the beach forthright.
Butterflies; two chairs sink in sand.
Her crescent smile as moon takes flight.
They’ve been beached in gleam of dreamland.
Bashful lashes rise; sea tears land.
Bubbles rise to her nose; she snorts.
The chortle of horizon scanned.
Her twilight eyes - amethyst quartz.
His aquamarines, she supports.
Alas, rough and tumble, this date.
High tide and tension as he courts.
His romantic gesture isn’t late.
He’s new to this dame…and there’s fate!
Lips lock as they’re kind of tipsy.
Friends set them up on a blind date.
By a beach beset with pearl and jade
And shells the shade of amethyst
The ocean, out of sapphires made
Glimmers through the moonstone mist
When sea and sky are aquamarines
Starfish shine from peridot pools
And like the summer breeze serene
July’s treasures flaunt these jewels.
Aquamarines
the secular bay
surrounding the open wooden docks
becomes my new home
I love to feel the sunshine
return to the outer zones
10-20-12
contest
The hands that wove this hammock
In a tropical land of colors
Where bright reds, greens, purples, and
Aquamarines, splashed everywhere on its
Birds, flowers and waters there;
Dextrous and practical, the hands
That wove this hammock, never manicured
Perhaps lovingly they grazed over their
Swaddled babies--they surely pulsed
With life and love, like mine.
They navigated the rippling patterns
Of threads and bound us
Embracing my baby and me
Strangers up in the land of snow and mountain
Where we ponder in peace in sway,
The hands that wove this hammock.
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