Colorblind

a cardboard-boxed wish,
labeled ‘undaunted’,
next to blood-red pumps,
long faded to rust (& ruin)

the old days —
when her heart still thundered
& the tip of her tongue
suffered no regrets

now
she wonders
if her lips
ever tasted like him.

___________________________
… based on the poem Escapade

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Siren’s Song

the lingering trace of maybe,
clinging to scuffed stiletto heels,
reminds you of those so(m)ber days
when there was just
you & the vast sea —
boiling over.

Sepia

night falls, thickly
with a taste of tangy orange
that masks the lump in my throat
while I think about
saying goodbye to you, predestined,
in the early hours of morning

discomfort slouches at the back of my neck
& I tap my nails on those angular customs
as I see myself squirm in this crammed space —
You and Me were all sepia smiles &
so much more than worn wooden benches

I will keep our moments
in a pudding cup,
squeeze them joyfully
a little too hard
& still raise your voice
long after the silence.

Paper Cuts

your story lingers
not in those letters ~
your feeble voice
never ruffled fragile pages,
nor did your truth
ever drip from fear-tainted quill

your story lingers
not on the cover ~
you never made it through
the cracks that hold a symphony
of old & worn

your story lingers
in paper cuts, resonant
on eager fingers, now stilled ~
then
I still had reason
to decipher you.

Reflections

I saw you
in the passing face of a
faith-stained goddess, wound
around her wrists like
the very first snake; bound
to her stride by your
need of fulfillment & mirrored
in those long-lasting shadows,
left behind.

Dewdrops

misty mo(u)rning shivers
in the crystal clear cold
& dives, frog-legged,
into the still green-stemmed ocean.

it is a marvel to see
strain strip
down to nothing but
a dewdrop necklace, suddenly smiling ~
and deep within the heart
the golden dragon
stirs.

tUScany

beyond the 10-hour-glass-front
(knotty-legged in this familiarly backstabbing seat)
an ocean of rye, harboring
this groggy wooden chair, tilting drunkenly;
young poppy blossom on tiptoe, reaching
to lend a delicate hand to the Seasoned ~
the bus crescendoed, sputtering,
and your eyes grew distant.

“I never liked olives,” you said that evening,
and flicked the black through liquid gold, bumping
into its younger brother,
like marbles on chipped china.
wild capers scrambled through
the cracks of shattered amphorae, nested
in a jungle of vines ~ you took
a sip of ruby red & I
saw the aaaaah in your eyes, lips sealed in a secretive smile ~

in a matter of minutes, we found ourselves
deeply rooted
in the Garden of Eden.

_________________________________________________________________
Written for Karin Gustafson’s prompt over at dVerse. Today, we’re doing Poetics Italian Style. So good to be back… grab a pen and join us at the bar!

Fragments

ftoospets mlet in pddules
and i lsoe tcrak
for the hnudretdh tmie
tihs day;
i straed too hrad
at dmears lnog psat.

yuor gsohted slmie
is my rdidle,
yuor joureny
my pzzule,
and i am sitll
the one lfet bnihed
atfer all teshe yraes;
not kwnonig wrehe to setp.

__________________________________________________________________
Brian over at dVerse invites us to write a poem about puzzles for Poetics today. I assure you, this poem’s not written in a foreign tongue. Heh. 😉 Grab a pen and join us at the bar!