As birdlife, dull windless calms
Adrift, within
Waits he, but on whose outcome, heart's own
Uplift promotes.
Corresponds to that breathy
Voiced for which girl
Thereout, if anything should activate
Bright-skied, bright notes.
Though humanity boundlessly drifts toward death,
We reach out for the false dream, toward the emerald blades.
Hear that low, breathy whisper echoing from the leaves:
"Come to me!
Lie upon my quilt with your beloved,
And taste the fullness of love."
The sun glows above, the grass dances below, and the wild breeze blows—
What is left for you to fear?
"Though I am merely a blade of grass, I bloomed solely for you;
Knowing death awaits, yet untamed in my longing to hold you,
I was simply happy, cradled in your gentle embrace."
Breathy, voice-shed
Or as soft
Aromatic, aloft
Seeps its way
This love in bloom's
Joint opined
(Hand in hand, shoot-entwined)
"Perfect day!"
Nostalgic memory
nerve nodules ache for blissed breathy musical beats
reverie
I hear music
for dances of slow life longing
cubic
Birdsong
in garden heats
prong
Nostalgic memory
for dances of slow life longing
prong
Like a thought of fuzz.
Combines like chicken claws.
Similar to how January doesn’t like anyone.
Enters my mind like a speck of gratitude.
Or everlasting stuff and weirdness.
Like a thought of fuzz.
Existence is a steering wheel speckled with glazed over feelings.
Enters my mind with patience.
Everywhere like perforations.
I have enough teetering in my pocket.
Lasts all February.
Curling, breathy, bearing weight and nothing more.
Like a thought of fuzz.
Floats for a while.
Drops down everlasting.
We sleep on each other,
lick on each other,
run around and nip on each other,
we are wholly 'each other,'
personalities
hid
in the ruff and fur around our necks
and the snaggle of our teeth.
We wag in unison
heart-timers synchronized.
When out in the big smell
we seek every scent
that sprout's
from the muddy baths and the great
wafting sky-waves that call to our blood
to come join,
come lope and snuffle.
The trails of other's drives us crazy,
we roll in bundles of ecstasy,
squat, squirt and snap at the thick odiferous airs
then inhale the news from every rump
we greet.
Under our skittering paws
leaf and grass, spatter and scatter
as we charge into each other.
What are these leaves of grass?
Each one could be a page
in poem of sniff and scratch.
The wind threads through our snouts
and we shake our heads
until our brains rattle in wonder.
Old Walt Whitman forgets to mention us,
but deep within his far pacing musings
we are there like an itch.
When he pauses his pen to nap and dream
our breathy huff huffiness
tickles his toes.
Weary Is My Mind
I promise, I swear, I will never, I will always
That blaring sentiment of a pattering ghost that I detest
Among the empty hollowing of her mouth and eyelids
There lies darkness deep and unending that I fell into once,
never again.
Baffled and naked, afraid and convinced I was nearing my hearse
She runs screaming, yelping in madness as her body falls dead
Once I thought I knew, but as fate would incline
The truth would be only a weapon and shield–vulnerable. . .
never again.
The prating sound squawks as death marks before her squalid breathy voice
Her pupils' contract like a viper’s hint at prey, pouncing, and then devouring
The blood is left spattering and spurting among my grey, hollow walls
Only her wedded can clean out the muck as I have given up,
never again.
Coiling around me with her slippery scales, the precipice of my demise
The sword and the shield once though best, were only cardboard copies
My soul is shattered, and my will is blank, giving into her sweet, nectary venom
The forefront of my being is gone. . . crushed under a blanket of rue
For Weary Is My Mind
I was sitting alone and silent,
while trees swayed back and forth.
Without warning,
untouchable,
unseen,
a musician began to play.
The melody rose, then fell
as breathy tones I heard.
Soon the shriek of a crescendo
shattered the midnight air.
I shivered at the passion
and sat in awe and wonder,
listening to the song
of the untouchable,
unseen
musician.
The unseen maestro, the wily whistling whisperer,
Cunningly twirls a sway in the bending trees,
Dabs, daubs and draws impasto clouds in the sky,
Lilts, entices, leaves to dance in tune, as it whistles on by.
The field of grass compliant, bends to lithe gusts sly.
Laughing to tickling tongue secrets, beholden in every sigh.
The wind teases waves, torments lakes to ripples.
Their surfaces combed and drawn to rugged stipples.
The wily whisperer winds its way into cracks and holes.
Creating drafts that shake the drapes like ghostly souls.
Defying all attempts to block their breathy intrusion.
You can feel it breathing in and out, expiring confusion.
Oh wily wind, your whispers collude and unwind,
The peaceful slumber of earth and heart entwined.
A breathy sigh that moved the air
encircled us with lusty flair.
Its sweet and tender brush of love
Left unsaid our intention there.
Some deep and thoughtful bold assertion
Drew us closer into its glare
And staved away intrusion of all others
Lest they disturb the passion bared,
And sweet the savory music flowed
Around, about, above, below
Until we floated on the brink
Of true love's kiss and knowing wink.
Love speaks to us on deeper levels
Where mere words cannot communicate.
How strong the pull of your embrace
And sweetly tinted kiss upon your face.
Each breathy sigh wafts through space
No matter where you go from me.
My heart knows each step you take,
And when you think of me
Every breath is shared with you
Every moment of love in tune,
Each sacred dream we share together,
And hope for futures yet unplanned,
Caress the air with sweet perfume
To pull us closer back together.
Because our love remains strong and true,
I dare not take a breath without you.
Copyright © Chula Fleming 3/16/1982
Innocent
Lighting travels through my core, like a diving hawk to prey.
Unwittingly, I let a breathy moan escape.
To the glory of the heavens, my eyes roll up then close.
The better to feel and isolate every touch bestowed.
Loved
Cherished
Liberated
Righteous
Found in innocent yearning, a blessed gift of pleasure from God,
Only man made shame can twist this right into something wrong.
No clothing but the skin I'm in, and not needful til I'm told,
This beautiful expression of love, this fire I can hold,
Is full of dirt and shameful works and turns the fire cold.
Shivering in my guilt, I frantically, hopefully, look,
for a way to hide and warm, as in Icy shame I shook.
The fig leaf doesn't cover me as completely as I'd want,
Desperately, I spill warm blood and in fresh furs I flaunt.
Only that life flow of crimson can cover any sin,
Now, knowing shame, and feeling guilt begins.
Deformed
Perverted
Twisted
Manipulated
From the innocence of love and sweet gift of pleasure,
To dark urges made ugly, no thought for forever.
Jump, thump, six graders jump
from stone to pebbly stone.
Chirp chirp the robin flies
Across the sky alone.
Crunch chunch the graveled feet,
Sh. . . shoo, a breathy whisper,
Hard, cold bench for a seat,
Rough wood, perhaps a splinter.
Puh, puh, puh, a boy spitting,
Mosquito slap
A girl is hitting.
Scarlet leaves on willowly stem
Dance in the crisp fall air.
I hear a chuckle.
Is it he
Playing over there?
The last bright orange, Autumn mums
Await their yearly demise.
A glance at my watch.
Oh, no, it’s time,
I’m thinking as I rise.
Fall day, sublime
God’s perfection.
What a task to study!
Until next time,
We’ll have to leave
Renewed, refreshed, unhurried.
~ Judy Bausch
My feelings, on the crest of each wave,
a fresh beginning washes ashore,
then ebbs away
before becoming a “thing”.
A dream rides each falling leaf,
drops to die in the sun,
portraying the tree
as the murderer.
Dandelion fluff scatters seeds
of memories across the air
and ending – well, nowhere,
blaming the breathy gusts.
If only I could ride the reddening
rivulets to lakes frozen in time,
those that hold my dreams and hopes
before melting into nothingness.
Then, and only, should I learn
the life that beats to break the hold
is always bound with hope.
If only I can survive.
The slightest touch of her magical touch
From her my Ladies loving feathery soft teasing hands as tender and whispy as As a fluttering Butterflies paper wings
On my receptive over sensitive skin
Evokes the sweetest pleasure and the most exquisite pain
And a heat-quenching shower of tiny love-shape8d cooling refreshing rain
My body tenses to a peak and then released under her command
Awakening virginal dormant sensations
Almost too sensitive to bear
Making me finally understand
What true love really feels like
And a good woman's control and power
To turn someone on
And I tell you she can
Such warm ecstatic sublime pleasure
Exquisite sweet ecstasy to a thankful appreciative needy Man
That eagerly returns it with an unrestrained passion on fire
Abundant purity of sacred eternal love and meaningful gentle breathy kisses
During that hot euphoric magical Union of hearts souls and minds
No one else on earth could understand
Just how special my woman is to me
But her and I
The day before a storm
belies calm and quiet,
wispy clouds bounce in skies
bright with boundless blueness,
Southern summer surprise.
The day before a storm
promotes a sweet fragrance
blown by light, gentle gusts,
softly scampering through
with breathy upward thrusts.
The day before a storm
imprints the Southern sky,
a taunting, teasing wind
caresses blank canvas
and moves colors to blend.
The day before a storm
rattles ironclad glaives
of battling stratus clouds,
a lull looms in the air
warning of what it shrouds.
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