EROS DART
The water's edge
The night is clear
The weathered wood
A lonely pier
A mooring loosed
I'm set adrift
Without fear
A sea of you
My oars break soft
So like a brush
Feathering
Each night your hair
The salt the wind
Remembering
Your mouth your breath
Surrendering
When all is lost
The storm that falls
Reminds me of
The way you loved
Diving deep
Your waters dark
Your beating heart
Bleeds, Eros dart
The shallow's sun
So far above
I choose to drown
Than lose your love
“The sea is emotion incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps.
It defies all attempts to capture it with words and rejects all shackles.
No matter what you say about it, there is always that which you can’t.”
– Christopher Paolini
More often, her soul widens
farther than breaths of a moon...
and through irreverent eyes,
she saunters into the ledge of woods
past time's curfew and nobility --
a wanton stroll by this sylph
daring the commoness of old rules--
Twirling along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment glorious
like the flared climb of dusk,
her wildfire spews a wanton blaze ----
fearless like some insolent woman
rising from mediocrity, burning oil
while dragonflies sleep in a lull ;
her navel radiant in the flickering,
feathering night with such
stubborn will...a maverick defying
traditional anthems of her nun's school.
Yet, this flared essence turns into warmth
as she tenderly flushes my fears at night
to hold the moon soft blue
while her arms delight in classic tunes,
cleansing my tears with hums
of ardor...and wings spread on
hope's ride divinely beaming with grace:
Mother.
Mama- light tenderly cuddles me;
each sky, each ream of grass
healing my rough, young adult soul...
APROPOS OF BIRDS OF DIFFERENT FEATHERS
Feathering their nests,
Off they flew to labors of love:
Working against war:-
Time for us to be as doves:
Where love is, war cannot be.
Today’s bald eagle’s
Symbolisms are reduced;
Except that of war:-
Time for us to be as doves:
Where love is, war cannot be.
Can’t clip a dove’s wing;
They’re eternally jointed:
But not the eagle’s:-
Time for us to be as doves:
Where love is, war cannot be.
I stand along the grey walls
of a sacred sanctuary
where her portrait hangs
immersing
eluding
shifting
in consummate chiaroscuro
like velvet, darkness drapes
across her almond cheeks
and I wonder
what the painter had in mind
when his last brush strokes
wet-on-wet
were glazing sfumato
blending
feathering
scumbling
the mysterious curves
of her lips
crestfallen or elated?
I wonder
The Fast Frigate Regatta on the Patuxent River" The Novel Idea"
is spoken to inspire the formation of a Organization to do so.
From idea to commandment the Work-to-do into a Work-in-process
could create a new sporting event
that could bring travelers and revenue to our area.
This is an idea to be welcomed by many-many river
loving people. The Culture of watermen is know thing new
to this area. A Provincial Council decree in 1678 mentioned Ferry
Operations here: and don't forget The modern naval station
located at the river's mouth was constructed between 1942–1943.
We have a long history here in the Patuxent River Valley and River.
World Class Competition that is aimed at showcasing the competitive edge
of River Racing. Terms and Terminology often associated with River Racing Includes.
concepts like technical, high-speed maneuvers on moving water. Other terms include phrases like,
whitewater disciplines.Feathering,Luff, Luffing etc. etc.
crucial for generating revenue and competitive advantage.
or non-physical assets that lack physical form.
Not knowing where Time begins
and ends...I suppose, we could be
anywhere? And if Eternity is true,
well, what does it matter?
So, let’s say that, for now, I am here
with you, and you with me – and all Time
is in the moment...then we are beginning
and end and eternity together.
You speak of End Times. While my life
is one of beginnings; this morning was
Sunrise...and in the evening will be Star
Rise – and I will love you even more
and not less.
Moonlight is liquid – didn’t you know?
A sable brush feathering from sunset, how
we sort of saturate the canvases of one and
other, transverse, cleansing and freshening
our borderlines. Let us paint love tonight.
Using fingers and Tongues, speaking ours
in a primal way
a child-like language of fond and far purer
gibberish.
More often, this soul stretches
farther than the breath of a moon....
and through jaded eyes,
I saunter on the ledge of woodland,
past time's curfew and sharp lacerations
from kin's betrayal : a wanton walk
glazes the ripeness of cherries----
that such pageant from susurrus of woods
weaves a new , disparate tune.
I twirl along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment
glorious as the slow climb of dusk...
this shard of pain spewing a wanton blaze
--radiant like a celestial star rising
from chambers, healing my ache
and waking pewter stones
while I half- slumber in a lull...
and I wrap my navel in soft linen,
the flickering, feathering night
differently cloaked in such nourished balm.
--I must be changed, my world honoring piety,
a lesson on life's lesion imbued through
the fragrant balm of my long , journey's song.
Hand on your shoulder- by Dominique Smith
Hi, whom are talking to? The cold reality pull you back. Hey? Whered you go? Whomsoever is there is no longer a feeling. Tight shadows in your cold corner, the feathering flicking lights of trust have been drained. The wires are exposed and unsafe, the water of tears can help electrocute you.
Falling failing flattened on the pavement, Hey? There you are. Wake up, what are you doing out here. Forest lit by fire flies, no memories have felt so enlarged, time goes on the weather is no longer a factor. Stop being stupid and get up off the ground, stop calling me stupid! Whome are you talking to? The humidity has you in a chokehold, the warm bath you slip into is a huge relief.
Come on, Lets go home. But I am home, No our home. Ok , lets go. WAITE!! NO!! what the hell is wrong with you?! I was going home.... No you're not! Youre going to the building with help and hope, No! Im not! Im going home! Look me in my eye, ok. Are there any hands on my shoulders? No. Then you fooled her again. Because you told the truth, the only hands i see are on my shoulders and they would never leave me no matter what or who.
Pundits preachers politicians
you may see
attorneys too
and even agree with me
I think you'll find
all have an agenda
with an axe to grind
lining their pockets
feathering their nest
keeping their cards
close to the chest
saying one thing
doing another
I'd take 'em out and shoot 'em
if I had my druthers
and then there's censorship
where one man's word rules the roost
to remain silent would be
a gag order self-induced
Bricusse and Newley had it right
when they wisely wrote
'Stop the world, I want to get off!'
a verbatim quote
_______________
(PoetrySoup Format)
_______________
. . . when days hold doubt, distracting with distance,
and feathering through darkness has become a challenge
~ remember me dear friend,
and these moments t r u e ~
because we are b e t t e r
together
---------------------------
sunshine with smiles,
they lift me while lifting you
---------------
simple thoughts from the heart
* friendship grows stronger, when helpful and honest *
From this angle the bushes do not conceal them.
Are they hinged or unhinging?
Each body is a prison gate for the other,
both seem stuck together by a pungent lip spit.
Feathering fingers pulse-play over gulping skin.
Greedy eyes zoom in,
unbuckling muscles sift and trowel,
modelling the creaming and palpable.
This public act despoils the evening
yet it also sweetens.
I feel the need to rut,
to suck inward all this carnality,
to sup upon this liqueur of spiced flesh,
even though my cupped hands
remain regretfully or not,
unsullied.
What we hear is a haunting,
of words not said,
there’s only this deep listening,
yet who or what attends?
Something mundane is said,
a sudden potency,
a brief sonic feathering
awakens inner ears.
The mention of an ordinary thing
connects us,
a span of invisible tissue,
bridges one foreign language
to another.
Tympanic bones
drum to the same beat.
contrary vibrations
dance in step.
Meanwhile the passion
keeps pouring through,
conjoined
synaptic junctions,
and our words
try to keep up as best they can.
Warm
are days
every Spring
as flowers bloom
and honeybees buzz
in search of sweet nectar.
The season of birth and growth
Songbirds sing while feathering nests
and leaves reappear on bare-limbed trees.
It's the time when nature paints the world green
The sandy beach and the ocean
obviously do not understand each other.
Each wave falls upon the shore,
as if it had never met that shore before.
The sand attempts to flow away,
yet scuttled crab legs
and the weight of empty shells
slows it to a shackled crawl.
Eventually,
the unstable edge of that feathering lip
tumbles into the sea.
Then the salty, always thirsty water,
turns away to flow more swiftly
through the open gills and mouths
of the unanchored
and free.
Gray wings
at the edge of a threadbare blue.
A feathering that attenuates
and denatures.
Beneath somber clouds
stone angels watch
green granite deathbeds
crumble
in darkening dens.
October slips
through our eyes leaving no footsteps.
We are unaware of its coming
until we close those eyes tight,
then under squeezed lids
they glint starbright.
Sea-deep into a restless night
we may apprehend
the faces of the bloodless
as they seek
some last verdant masks to cover
their ice-sculptured features.
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