Ice water veined
Oceans are a continuation of sky
drenched and impatient
in its teeth
On brackish waves
whispers are lost
While sacrifices never forgotten
* * *
Stream and rhythm
are one in
And there are other words
from dead languages
seen only in
memories of transliterations
No language is dead
so much as hidden.
Words like to run
and do best
when detached from
black skin of text.
Clay left with stylus pressings
of sounds getting away.
* * *
Mist is metaphor
with a tribute to Eurydice
and Lot’s wife.
Tired of song and sermon
a better ending.
Darkness gorges on lutescent light,
Deep sapphire water and sage woods encircle.
Lush sylvan vegetation coughs angelically,
Sprinkling aurulent dust upon moss and grass;
Fantasy collides and abolishes night.
Rough paper melts into bliss,
Glassy eyes wander, hopelessly, wonderfully lost;
Passionate fingers flip,
Cinnamon aroma burns nostrils,
And electrified mind lofts reality,
As eight-horned fairies lick moonlight lakes,
And vermillion hued suns burn cerulean skies.
By fellow WordPress poetry blogger Ardent Bowel
Perched up high upon my steep slanted roof
tiny feet wearing red playground dust
clinging to warm shingles
sparkling in mornings light
flooding my mind
like what happiness must be
like bitter lemon tamed with sugar
dripping over a soft summer day
rising fearless ruler in a peasants dress
holding a tiger by the tail