A breathing weight pushes flesh
into fabric and wood.
A cellular heat melds, sinks inward.
Fibrous miasmas knit cloth and foam
to a ligamentous persona.
Nightly, less of her
is peeled away to be packed
between sheets.
Her last chair takes upon it
a deeper imprint then her body alone.
It has folded her inward into hollows,
each one a pool of bodily memories.
This evening the chair has the shape of a lover
He has two more legs, but his arms
still thrill in a comforting way.
Together they are both tucked into
one more upholstered dream.
Categories:
miasmas, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A storm on the edge of sleep,
a night storm, a night horse,
black fire blown through
wind hollowed lungs.
A storm in the ringing shell of self,
where sleep slopes down
to a dimming light.
The mind has shape,
it has a thousand miles
of tundra. Mountain ranges.
The mind has miles.
Dragons are tossed in the air;
on their backs, those
forever lost - wave hello.
The red beaks of storm gulls
are open, and they sing
of the deep sea dreams
we never remember.
Macabre images chase
scaly tails
through maelstroms.
Mushrooms flower miasmas
of ghost-moths.
Amid this teacup tumult,
a child looks out, a storm-child
driven to the high ledge of night.
A tempestuous place
where lies a slumbering head,
sleepy legs dangling
over a pitched and plunging bed.
Categories:
miasmas, poetry,
Form: Free verse
I am the reminiscence of you, since you were once me –
stirred among the strings of sense.
I am the reminiscence of everything you love,
since the vivacity of things you praise most.
I remind you of dark of the sky enlivened by stars, blue,
Or grey miasmas scurrying towards the horizon.
Or I remind you of undaunted tide of time clenching fist against you,
Or perhaps, I remind you of the marionettes of dead
Danced by twisted delusions.
Perhaps I am horror to you, or joy
Of trivial surprises which you long for with avidity,
But cannot quench your insatiable thirst.
Perhaps I am your reminiscence, really,
Of stardust slowly fading somewhere in your past sojourns.
Yet I could have been me apart from your reminiscence,
Instead of an endless strive of hauling eyes above the sea of us,
As I know, the corpse of poets’ floats for a show
While the living ones are dragged down to be trampled.
Categories:
miasmas, senses,
Form: Free verse
De las auroras se integra la flor;
Semblantes pretextos clarecen,
Gradaciones progresivas acontecen;
Aparece la luminosa flor...
Esplendor ilustra tal flor;
Miasmas cultivados,
Perfumes emanados,
Colores enmarcados;
Brisas acarician su fulgor...
Del destello salió la flor;
Alimentada a gotas,
Prospera su polen fertilizado,
El viento pronuncia su olor...
La luz ilumina sus encantos,
Estrellas celestes y serenas en entornos
De ninfas que habitan la flor;
Alborece ante los astros,
Gamas que pigmentan la maitinada flor...
Del alba nació la flor;
Resplandece al pasar el céfiro;
Linfas la nutren;
El arcoiris presenta su color...
Categories:
miasmas, flower, growth, imagery, light,
Form: Free verse
BEAUTIFUL LOSERS
Clandestine candelabra pure and pristine
play with shadows on the walls
where perception is deceit
Golden mantles passionate back drop imbues
fragrance breath through smooth tresses
black dresses unzip discreet
Observing through miasmas of smoke vapors
invidiously neatly seated
eyes covet eluded defeat
Times bygone
Beautiful
Losers
© Kim van Breda- 6 August 2014
Categories:
miasmas, betrayal, imagery,
Form: Free verse
When reflecting on the nature of mind
Of what wit or wisdom do we dare speak?
For the wind in the sky is all we find,
In a round and round game of hide and seek.
It’s mind over matter, sages surmise;
With power of mind as their driving force
Deductive logicians philosophize
From ‘We think, therefore we are...’ as the source.
We muse; we spin, in dreaming delusion,
Our webs of thought, until nought we behold,
And heady with sense, fall in confusion.
Or is yet the end of the story told?
As our labyrinth journey turns and twists,
We lose our way in miasmas and mists.
– Harley White
Categories:
miasmas, deep, life, muse, truth,
Form: Sonnet
Sweet love, your cheek is pallid and your crest
Is laid with spleens of winter’s iron rage.
Your lip is faint, and your heart now does rest
Within the bowelled dungeons of sore age.
Your kiss, once but a touch of summer’s blood
Is now a stab of winter’s dreary gripe,
And your eyes now are with miasmas fraught.
Your soul presents no flower or fruit, ripe.
The visions of your dream have been expelled
By wanton winds that o’er the canyons sweep
And love that you within your gaze beheld
Has sunk within eternal, frosted sleep.
That isn’t so: when summer’s ripening
Sweet blossoms on your pallid face, then spring.
© 2013 Gleb Zavlanov
Categories:
miasmas,
Form: Sonnet