floating and leaving no trace
i want to put my hands
in your hair
you are like filament
glowing in an
incandescent bulb
hard to look at
until you hear
that tinkling snap
and then darkness
and i wished i had risked
the blindness of looking
rather than the blindness
of looking away
or extinction
with that casual glance
over your shoulder
i should have wondered….
——
Want to read more? You can. My poem she’s no betty grable is available to read at the Tupelo 30/30 project page.
This prompt is brought to you by the wonderful Pleasant Street whose site Are You Thrilled never disappoints. You need to head over there and listen to her purr some of her poems. You really will be thrilled.
That’s seven days out of thirty under the old belt-a-roonie. That means there are twenty three left. And I got some open spots. Go to Tupelo Press’ Project 30/30 page for more details.
i long to open you
the way the letter opener
desires to slip between
the thin layers of the envelope
to free the message within
your letters are breaths
whispered, imprints on
time both more substantial
than flame susceptible pages
but as pale as dissolving gossamer
i want to worship
but the only goddess
who will listen
in is a bottle
of salad dressing
here lies lust
whose blood has
turned to rust
decaying bones
a powdered dust
remember the fire
in his veins
bore you higher
than any snow-capped
mountain spire
what an art
was seduction
the saddest part–
he had no
beating heart
——
It’s National Poetry Writing Month!
Day 3
Check out these sites:
open me
avail yourself of the best knives
words glances touches
honed sharpened designed to
slice cut sever
make me shudder
make me twitch
drag your tongue hot
across the open wound
cauterize it with your spit
papillae scraping edges wet
knit me
with your purrs
with your moans
close me
we walk and i place my
hands through you
as if you are a column of smoke
after all, blues skies are just
an effect of
rayleigh scattering
i’m waiting for a hologram
of you that is more
solid, fleshy and yielding
i want to see my fingers
sink into your skin
i want to make shadows on you
your skin is a sin
or at least
invites to me sin
(if there is such a thing)
all i know is
hell’s flames
can’t be as hot
as your breath on my neck
a trickle
few drops left
and not enough to quench
a normal thirst
yet a flood for mine
when i have given up
the need for water
warm belly,
remember this ferocious desire
for you are a prisoner of
women wet with throbbing
sadness
sacred sex, porcelain hearts, salted smiles
——
Words and Feathers 