Soft motion on a moon swing,
big wishes waltz slow dancing.
The skyline starts romancing
with a glow that’s trumpeting.
Constellations glow and ping
like a young prince whispering
‘Let us make music all night.
The air is tight and pulsing.’
As shooting stars create trails,
all that surrounds you just pales.
Just one touch of fairy tales,
such innocence your soul wails.
Falling into cream and veils
red roses have tipped the scales,
now you believe what they wrote.
A sweetheart mote’s lush entrails.
Aromatic alleviation that you need;
the secret to having anything succeed?
A blanket fort and peppermint pillow mote;
Sea of calm spiked with crimson passion;
If you get high on imagination?
That’s the turnkey to get inside;
I dare you to try and break the fire wall
if there’s nothing of childhood you recall;
Forever locked outside your psyche;
Fragrant aroma that allows you to breathe
free to rejoin what lies underneath;
Inhale exhale, roll back in time.
She appears nursing a child.
Her body leaks into my mind
on a busy street.
Desire nurses the imagined
into secrecy.
A dark bed hides dark hungers.
One small image
attached to her attractive form speaks.
It leans over her arm...
“If you keep breathing life
into a lust,” it says,
“desire grows a plasmid body.”
I create again its mother,
her enticing smile.
That sexual magnetism
I took home to undress.
The ghostly infant
moves close to my mind.
“Don’t worry,” it says,
“my crippled condition
cannot be seen
behind wide open eyes.”
It’s sad to see a foreclosed soul
Stacked in white sheets rising
Or elephants that die a “noble death”
To hear the passing sirens
That dare disturb our sleep
Give us pause to wonder
Whose last breath.
The plot we’re given
Slow or fast unravels
Lunatics in fringe worn clothes
Dance on as mortals weep
Laughing Gods amidst
Their armchair travels
Touch yet another button
As we sleep
What is life but wondering,
A speck upon a mote
In the eerie still of silence
A solitary note.
A good mote,
something to imagine upon
with sin in mind.
Near strangers in the same office,
clothed only by levels and walls.
From two floors up
she let her dark hair down.
Hour after hour
he running fingers through strands,
twisting ropes of sensuality.
A married mote,
a thought made flesh
that grew too large for eyes.
A bad mote,
a succubus in the den of being,
a succulence of dark desires.
Time-worn, and weary it waned,
it cooled
leaving only residuals,
flavors good and bad.
A clearer youth
un-imagined her utterly out,
deleted that mote,
gone and forgot forever,
until now.
She appears again
nursing a child.
Her body once leaked into my mind
as we passed on a street.
desires nurse children
imagined into secret.
One small image
can speak like an adult.
It leans over her arm.
“If you keep breathing life
into a lust,” it says,
“it grows, a plasmid body.”
I remember her mother:
A brief conversation
that I took home to undress.
The child moves close to my ear.
“Don’t worry daddy,” she says
“my crippled condition
cannot be seen
behind your open eyes”
Cry me a River
By Charles Gerald Patrick Chard 2nd
Chevra Gavri Hanita Hazaka Abir Selek 2nd
I feel like crying in this mote,
Will it ever stop raining its wet cloak?
Enough is enough let the sun shine through,
Why must the rain make me feel so blue?
The drudgery of what I must endure,
It’s constant drudgery of down pour for sure,
Is there no hope in sight?
Is this my chosen plight?
Where O where is the hope I seek,
Why O why does my soul feel so bleek,
Who has the power to stop this constant down pour?
When will my spirit be free to sore?
There with all I write you my plight?
Sun O sun come back from this endless night.
A mote of dust travels through the air
blown this way and that across the lands.
Finally after many miles it is entrapped
in a rocky crevasse where it joins others.
In time the wind blows in many more motes
and something wondrous starts happening.
These motes give birth to little plants
that struggle at first then bind the land.
Encouraging new birth all around and
flowers that vibrantly wave in the breeze.
Young saplings shoot out deep tap roots
that anchor them in place where they flourish.
In time a mighty forest springs to life
harbouring a wealth of flora and fauna.
All of this came to pass due to just one,
one solitary mote of well travelled dust.
written 11/18/2014
contest Gathering Dust
I sent these inner tears out,
to the Heavens above,
and the Earth below.
Let my sorrows flee with the wind
and bring me happiness once again.
I wish for a Love,
that no longer exists,
too afraid to open old wounds yet again.
So I ask,
quietly plea,
that the Powers that Be,
set it free.
And only return,
if it is meant to be.
So mote it be.