Short Rasps Poems

The susurrus breeze 
of spring’s ingénue trees 
now rasps and wheezes,
rustling sparse leaves as
the trees, now crones,
rest brittle bones,
primed for winter’s coming....

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STEAMING NOSTRILS, RIP-ROARING LOUD

you know a great movie when you press your own palm
over your mouth, eyes pop, breath rasps
open the gates, all of them
Jurassic Park

12/16/2018...

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Tongue flicks at mouths hinge
looking for an inlet rest
breath hold
in tremored chest
His eyes flit
as chocolate twirled dress
comes to autumn leaves fall rest
From your knees discover
each curves turn over
You are mine to use
she rasps from bedraggled hair tumble...

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Acrostic on NIGHTMARE


N-ightmare hugs my brain
I-nk of dream kisses my pain
G-rasps me it fully with the bundle of bone,
H-urts me amid my sweet dreamy plot,
T-ricks and traps me to walk on showing path,
M-erely I follow a cheated dreamy birth
A-im is destined to beat my sanity
R-ightly I find myself in insanity
E-rase O’dear all my path of tears...

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I am gone.


The sun got so low the horizon called me
I began to walk towards the increasing darkness
As I did my shadow disappeared and so did I
The whisper was very soft but it said “goodbye”
The clothes that I had been wearing were still here
The smell of my sweat rasps around the open land
I am gone yet something’s never die like hope in the beyond....

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Rich tones of chestnut encircle his curls-
Waving, twisting, winding in my fingers.
Full bodied lips tangle mine; his tongue swirls,
A trace of tangy cherry still lingers...

A tinge of smoke rasps the depths of his throat,
As breath wafts past my ear in smooth action.
His moan has the earthy timbre of oak
As he sings my name with spicy passion...

I detect satisfaction....

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I
I am haunted inside,
there's a ghost upon my heart
repelling love

and I
I am frightened
by this specter
who rasps of malady
yet somehow I feel secure

my soul calls to you
in it's translucent skin,
but no one (not even God)
can save me
from being absorbed within

these bones 
they squeak and bellow
like an older home
yet I
I am only 32
with barely a pen 
to hear me...

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dry white snow rasps the asphalt
attempting to reclaim the purity
of a metropolitan morning

coating the concrete pillars
brushing with tender touches
the grates and allies

dusting the bottom lands
of bordering belted swamps
with leggy aplomb

the icy shavings take flight
on the whoosh of winter
in hushed whispers they move on


First Published by The Tishman Review January 2015...

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this isn't you
 not your style
 guttural rasps
 that barely scratch the surface;
this isn't you
 not your style at all
 too many remnants of memory
 when time held you in place;
I see your dark shadows
 walking close behind you
 small, minuscule and demure
 but still walking are the ghosts of you;
this isn't you
 not the pseudo images, well-formed
 from the very heartbeat
 of which you were born....

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Let me burn in this paradise,
Fill my chest with butterflies…

A fate with no restrict
Thrills of rapture and perplexities in a mix

Whisper those sweet sultry rasps
With that smile I love so much 

Subtle savor of your lips to your fingertips,
Give me something I don’t wanna miss.

Baby you don't need to ask,
For you I'll lay down this mask.

Make me vulnerable in this yellow light,
After a dark fiery fight....

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Drowning in the Maelstrom
Vision blurred grey
Head Bowed
Mouth set unmoved

Two skins wet
Feet aflame
Back broken
Body numb

On the green earth
Between steel topped stone
And a God’s fury
I sit
They sit
We sit

Breath rasps with the steam
Frozen and frying
Dead hands and dying feet
Rest

The sea taps at numb shoulders
Water on stone
Eyes refocus
Still grey

The ocean drips over the brim
A waterfall for weary eyes
The call comes
They Stand
I stand
We stand

Hacking back into the torrent...

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