Poetry

 

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She Is Stardust

The fragrance of flowers loved so much,
the crunch of leaves underfoot,
and the soft embrace of mist at the first blush of day.
 
In the sand and crescendo of waves,
crab and cattails grasp her,
and rollers bear her distant and deep in the Great Big Blue.
 
She is passed,
yet still ever current.
She is consciousness, a recollection clutched steadfastly in the heart.
 
I listen to her voice at daybreak and at dusk,
she is all around, bound intimately with the Goddess,
enduring and verdant, yet still her own.
 
Her spirit ascents apace,
and in a burst she hurtles in all directions,
towards the center of all things, and to the outer fringes.
 
She is stardust.
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Rinse and Repeat

Gaia cradles us in her verdant bows.
The balm of grass and a warming fire.
Glowing embers meet the cosmos beyond.
Stars skip, she spins, and my mind swims.
Creation in all it's grandeur unfolding and ebbing with every drag and sigh we take.
 
Chill air covering her skin.
Goosebumps beneath a mantle of blankets.
Momentarily warmed, from the inside out.
Unobscured providence, she moves, and my soul is fascinated.
 
With each lure of her hips and the savor of our lips,
Galaxies erupt, until we spasm, vibrating with all the unknown.
 
Then one and all. We, and them. Succumb to a tranquil slumber.
 
Fullness and emptiness. Filling and draining. The void.
 
Darkness turns to shadows. Nothingness. Nothing.
 
Timeless. Time. Less.
 
Eyes open. Transcendent.
 
Rinse and repeat.
 
Rinse.
 
Repeat.
 
Repeat.
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Villanelle #1

 The dark sarcophagus the mason is making.

Steeple bells ring a sinister verse.

A solitary mistress her love forsaking.

 

Servants at their stations stand alone, quaking.

Only after her passing do they curse,

The dark sarcophagus the mason is making.

 

The hammer resounds through the stone it is breaking.

Somber is the mortician now with money in his purse.

A solitary mistress her love forsaking.

 

For only if her master would be waking,

To her passions no matter how perverse,

The dark sarcophagus the mason is making.

 

Love having been given over to evil there is no mistaking.

Her alibi firm after a short rehearse,

A solitary mistress her love forsaking.

 

Finding his life was worth the taking.

Under heaven and over hell her soul will traverse,

The dark sarcophagus the mason is making.

A solitary mistress her love forsaking.

 

(Originally written June 14, 1998)

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By the Beach

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