In a world where love has forgotten its place, lost all meaning, left floundering in the mud—courage has found its nirvanic horizon, its ruby flames rise up in the end~ Poetess
Destroyed, slain,
smashed and driven to the ground~
a brutal odyssey of dispiritedness
of rude awakenings endured
around this, fire kept burning within
intoxicating every vein in my body
when welled up eyes, pools of tears fallen
I was the ocean, the lone firebird that flies over
a lone star ablaze, weightless, free-spirited
and alas, rising from the ashes
in glorious splendor for all to observe and marvel
born outside rose walls, from wind, at night,
from red clay, the flowers and the mud,
weeds and roots they know my name
its not attention I seek, its resonance
smashed and driven to the ground~
ignored, displaced, and all but forgotten
and from this despair, I am the phoenix rising
f r o m t h e a s h e s are the gauze wings,
refined in sapphire gossamer velveteen
walls turn to rubble, no rose-stone left unturned,
left unseen is what most is valued, light sifts thru
I’ve won life’s prize—contentment's invaluable gifts
give me your velveteen touch;
as careful hands brush eager skin
caution and desire fuse so gently,
and dance angel sighs
into my aching bones.
the longing on your lips
tastes of rain,
so sweet after the dry heat of summer,
when the sun burned + i called it love.
now it's all wind;
from your mouth,
through the poplar leaves,
down my spine.
oh to be so wanted!
to consume without savouring,
as though there will always be
more.
the honeyed nectar
of your words and eyes
is spoon fed onto my waiting tongue.
i smile as i drink;
my teeth are sticky + so are yours.
Nosferatu, I got a ear for this ship.
I'm all ears.
Predominantly black, attire twill and tweed.
Intriguing to the stem
Nosferatu
Projection with black cinema.
With a rear end like black velveteen.
Satin and wool like a sheep.
That never goes to sleep.
In my conure' owl state.
Written: June 15, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
****************
Violet bleeds beyond mere shade
spilling a bruise in velveteen light
a dusk softens into tender praise
while stars bloom across a dark sky
Rhythm whispers night to sleep
a blaze in dawn's pansy sweep.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
The vixen is teaching her cubs to dance,
The dance of the fox trot.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Mid-March marks the wild animal masquerade
As the crimson embers of dusk fade,
The worm moon is rising.
Stars swoon to the moonlit tunes
Of the song thrush and warbler,
More subtle and melancholic
Than the chorus of dawn;
The jazz of the chiffchaff
And nightjar acoustics.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Slow, slow.
The glade is spotlit,
Luminous, sublime and silvered.
Humble earthworms deep in the ground
Awoken and beckoned to the spring sound,
To the rise and fall of the dance.
The cubs’ eyes alight with secrets,
The vixen wears her finest gown
Silken, and lustrous,
Her dog fox cloaked in shadows.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Last summer's velveteen foxgloves
Silence the rhythm of her paws,
Beautiful but deadly.
He brushed in tails is a smooth elegance
Of sleek copper shimmer.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
They gather as a promenade of hunters.
Let the carnival begin!
Written: January 18, 2026, for Line Gauthier Contest
***********
A vest
of velveteen,
silver wings wavering,
whirling in glittered drift below—
the moon
her aged hands smoothed the velveteen cloth
a floatie travelled across the upper corner of her right eye
was spirit here already?
She peered into her crystal ball, quieting herself
messages floated into her mind
she knew her client would be connected with ancestors
if he was not clairvoyant, he would be clairaudient or clairsentient
the seasoned soothsayer picked up her tarot deck
she began laying the cards down in a precise order
she flipped the cards and read the message
pick up the runes too, a voice said
being clairaudient, clairsentient and clairvoyant,
of course she followed spirit’s directions
I blow smoke of dreams to daffodil streams,
beneath the sky, engrossed in love’s last sigh,
while this heart quivers, drunk on astral fever,
in the kohl-lined arms of the cold midnight,
kissing my soul in silver slivers…
O velveteen warrior, allow my gaze to trace lifelines~
sailing interstellar seas of electric stars
wrapped in whimsical wisps,
to leave our closing phrase on the lips of moon-haze,
as I breathe the silk of Luna’s wistful breeze~
drawn from the rosy dusk of his restless repose...
And this pearl ~ the nebulous clarity ~
emblazoned in pixelated poetry,
shall be the timeless spark of twin flames,
amidst the pull of bruised-blue silence…
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I
I weep by the stardust shore where seraphs sing
Tangerine tears rain despair ‘neath a velveteen veil
My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets
Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions
Despondent sloughs bespeak the depths of my soul
Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists
Morose melodies paint scabs on pastiche strophe
Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament
But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes
A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds
Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry
Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody
Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy
But wise men abrade from calligraphic charade
How disenchantment marked a pageant
of inky lights drifting upon a skyscape
vast as heaven's trail , my heart
sinking from faded glimmers
traveling at the speed of dying flight--
when I recall one pure moment
How star-beams whisked
into the crystal sky reeling pivoting
away... all those lucent
impressions kept when unusual bands,
awakening my growing sense of faith:
Across velveteen, midnight hours --
this matchless spectacle of a display
changed my view of this universe's breadth...
I remember being blinded by bright of filament--
till my hoarse voice begged, "touch me!"
Dropping on my lap somewhat cured,
I gradually began kindling a passio
for kindness and faith outside my frail self...
Why in his presence, did her soft heart, always like sweet
cotton candy melt?
Orchestral songs engendered the tenderest feelings, to her
heart, so aquamarine velvet.
Such starlit, subtle, shameless, suggestive glances!
An antennae in every way was she, inviting kaleidoscopic,
tsunamic romances.
On the fog cradled ship, with a cape of fog, blessing her
chiseled,moonbeam face,
His arms enclosed her in a velveteen gold, cuddled in his
silent, starshine embrace.
Oh, poetess, penning of feelings of deep intimacy.
Your poem, will be stamped “romantic “?
A term, you loathe and find so very meaningless and worse,
utterly curt and disgustingly pedantic!
But only a poet who knows your heart to its scarlet
inner flaming core,
Has the outstanding bravissimo to knock on your truly
insatiable, heart’s-door!
Dare he try his wings and wish for such magically,
exotic, sensual satisfaction?
Wrapped in those twilight, wild, moonbeamed curls
of Eurydice’s Olympian extraction!
6/4/2024
The cherish of the pearled constellations reflect
in her eyes, so wondrous her eyes.
It is the hour of the romance of the spring equinox,
the saints are whispering in their night vespers.
Her muse slumbers in a gown of velveteen dreams,
yet, her moonlight-blessed creativity is such
lyrical ecstasy born from her quintessence.
Her gifts of poetry bid me to breathe them in
with their stardust enchantments.
No, she is not mortal,
she pens of not only love's light and stars,
but of humankind and it's folly.
The blithsome moon desires to stay,
as her eternal face of ageless lover's
inspiration will not leave her timeless poetess.
Poetess, oh poetess, reclines on
cumulus clouds of eventide pink and lavender,
that billows so gently from her being.
Rise, dear poetess, and pen more the
mastery of your words, your verse,
til God's gilded dawn. ~
Casual lion lounges in his 70’s jacket
It is made of velvet, not velveteen
Softer than his mane if you can believe it
We wait for his words of wisdom
He is the king of beasts and of the forest
The waiting goes on for a long time
He has relinquished his rights to hyena
The animal who thinks everything is funny
Who can fault that? Asks the zebra.
More evidence that…
buffoons and clowns always run for office.
I am soaring above canopies of an olive kingdom,
singing sagas of untamable freedom, to whistling mistrals,
as a choir of tropical rain-forests serenade a wild chorus,
my rare perfumed wings unfurl strength~pirouetting like a ballerina in the velveteen clouds,
gracefully gliding toward mountains clayed with honeysuckle-glazed minerals;
I’ve been a keeper of secrets lost in the mists of time,
embracing the glowing sun that illuminates fields of fern,
whilst hope rests beneath my indigo feathers, guiding rose gold flocks.
Sometimes falcons and eagles are ignorant to my survival instincts-
they search for a sign to prey on my maternal prowess;
I mimic their frequency to deceive sharpened fangs and talons,
for I can hear whispers from miles of silence echoing amidst predatory darkness.
So find me in the wilderness, I am a harlequin macaw conquering depths of dense thicket trees.
Spooky Ghostly Halloween
the sky looks like velveteen.
Wild loud howls, nowhere to be seen,
echo through of the wolverine.
The citrine moon hangs, high,
a wicked smile, cunning, and sly.
In a blink of a dominant eye
bats chase the clouds across the sky.
Eerie, Pumpkin Head quite brickle,
waving its sharp rusty sickle.
Haunting nightmares hairs prickle
as crows fickle blood caw, caw trickle.
In the old manor her ghostly spirit
appears roaming through it. Do you see it?
10/17/2023
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