March 21, 2016

i had known awhile ago i wanted to smell poem rapture(s)


Karl Lagerfeld Model: Edita Vilkeviciute: 2009
Vogue Germany ©



she's part of Persephone's crew 
she's billions of particle collides 
she's tiny ever inching voice root awakening(s) 
she's every something bulb hidden earthy 
she reaches me bound stippled 
to a mast and spread sail 
amassed in a fast gale 

outside the house 
is teeth and gown
rattle panes and sway limbs  
northwesterly mourners 
late lagg-er(s) behind winter 
echo roaring countenance veils 

i linger, precipiced near 
this tasting her dexterity 
cold butter pats turning
between her fingers 
into fined flour 

she's working the embrace 
clasp trellis ready too 
morning glories moon flowers 
pods, peas and porridge 
in that pot of tales tolled 
how many dinners left 
until this poem 
is sung land when 
i was king alobar 
looking glass 
with kudra 
in the reflection 

i heard her laughing on a swing  
a-muse-(s)ass-vices-her 
comet frequency tones 
meant to be left rarefied
she smiles at me 
a melody 
says radio music 
has gone term  
wanting forms 
before listening

i feed myself her scatter array notes 
poem ripe(s) without words 
red sprite poked troposphere paper 
pens where i surrender 

my human thoughts 
collectively glow 
as a mane 
of memory 
digging into 
a sky kneaded  
beneath me 
i am removing 
my poem clothes
at her request 
exhales and rumpled 
cities at the foot 
of synapse worship 
and a queen size bed

she said meaning 
was ghosts, wind 
carved roles 
and eons
on the road 
rhythm slow licks 
frenzy and you
desperate to hold 
some little bit 
of forever tightly 
tied with strung 
temporary wants 
as the stories 
names gift bones with...

she spied me writing raw 
asked where aware's worn shy 
your heart i imagine 
is inside
all your blink speed lenses 
as after thoughts 
your captured 
telegraph rituals 
and wireless courtesan 
thirst capacity...

and yes, 
she says 
beauty drives 
this awareness of mine  
but remember poet, 
she continues 
in her eyes
time still eats 
your bones 
like clockwork 

she was right 
of course 
we dig purpose 
and wanting 
so we may feel 
by bleeding 
each life 
with a chance 
at a fleetingly 
sensed infinity 
to love

EJR ©

3 comments:

  1. What a beautiful tribute to your muse; I love this!

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    Replies
    1. not sure I deserve to be this a-muse-d but I am mindful of her gift(s)

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    2. "their gifts," you mean; they're everywhere when you really start to listen

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