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Adonis in Dreamscape

Somewhere--
where chimney smoke dots the distance
in synaptic gaps, like memory loss in warm rolling meadows, I tango

with the sun matching my every step.
Our growing heat--a fever un-indexed on any chart--
warms my neck as meadowlarks

sing warnings to intruders. I pause
in rehearsed mid-curve of a dip
to slip myself off; upside-down, the blue sky

becomes a cloudy skipping stone path
along a zen azure river bed.
Someone crosses that rarefied stream; meadowlarks

scatter and soar into those rapid currents to drown,
as the timothy grass above
bows and parts like hair yielding to watery eyes. He arrives

hunkered and stalking; the sun
returns to its rightful place; released,
I twist and fall onto my knees.

The wind offers burning incense:
cherry-wood and ripened blackberries
from the undergrowth of his kinky hair.

His indefatigable arms,
with sun-kissed skin, gather me up--
wildflowers bunched to his bare chest

in one motion; I stare at thin scars on his stomach
while his breath--
a Snowy Owl's stuttering wingtip-- brushes me.

My trembling fingers crawl inside his hands: hands
dewy and deathless as the Earth
that receives us all in our due turn.

We spin.

Where did you come from, O Beautiful One? The ancient capital
of Nineveh, by way of Lesbos and Sappho's revered verse,
only to descend into my arms...maybe...

pivoting, his dark myrrhic eyes betray his intentions,
and I feel my breasts heave and sigh, as our rush
blurs grass and sky,

until colours fracture, fall
and form iridescent steps to Aphrodite's throne. We ascend past the clouds;
I half expect feathers to tear from his back, during our dance.

We drift.

I kiss him before he condenses and falls like rain,
returning back to the soft ground.
His blood slowly coagulates into a bed of red roses

that are plucked
by young, barefoot maidens in flowing, virginal dresses
who have come far to worship our passing beauty.

I wake.

The sun bestows me red rows through my window in consolation;
I grin at those fresh flowers filling the kitchen vase,
while my husband, awake early, smiles coyly
and burns myrrh incense.

At dawn, when sunshine spills across the grass,
my eyes are drawn to fuzzy balls of light
that float and flit on gauzy wings. They pass
down low to skim the dandelions, their flight
controlled, describing angles as they go
criss-crossing rapidly without a pause
so that it's hard to see them clearly, though
here's one that hovers near,

defying laws

of physics. Oh. It's just a dragonfly;
a pity, for I thought I'd seen the dance
of sylvan sprites. Ah, Mother Nature's sly,
for where there's prey there'll always be a chance,

and here's a tic-tac-toe of silver webs
to catch the morning fairies by the legs.

Lamentable Conviction


I stand

in Conquest’s aftermath,
where bronzed valleys bemoan
crimson-soaked chants.

Frantic charioteers storm off
to slaughter an enemy
of lamentable conviction.

In faint whispers,
Gods of Wind and Rain clamour
a thunder of horses’ hooves
upon my crusade

cleansing the bloodshed and core
of fallen kinfolk I never knew…

In that rancid place,
the gloom of dreams summons
those clanging upon heartstrings
of acquiescent minds.

For it is in their whirling laughter,
their incomprehensible actions,
that we shall find truth!

Those who follow false Messiahs
shall surely perish…
not by thy enemy’s sword nor hand,
but by their own feeble foolery.

A tolerant innocence exists
only in our yesterdays
where the strong return
shaking in triumph;
bearing freedom’s crest.

In black armour, we ride
to the depths of Hell,
where the only enemy to conquer

is ourselves.

Copyright © Lorraine M Kanter

Listen! (3RD REVISION)

Hear it ! The wind is calling us.
Let’s leave this gloomy cell,
to roam vast fields and pick
bouquets of sunshine in the dell.

Yes, listen! Let green grass and trees
command those flowers speak.
The call of deer, the chirp of birds
revive us when we're bleak.

Refrains of rains and swirling sea
console our heated mind.
These gifts of heaven, ours for free;
let's thank Him who is kind.

So don't allow your ears be closed
against the splendor's sighs
and never let your heart be blind
to modest orphans' cries.

Agatha Lai

On the Verge. (Tersa Rima)

Alone. It's hot. Familiar odours steam
in tones of brown. The trees are breathing earth;
dark humus wets their feet and mine. I lean
against an ancient Puriri, its girth
a measurement of time. It gathers me,
absorbs my consciousness, and gives me birth

into another world ... of energy
that flows between the trees; that fiercely sweeps
in elemental chaos from the sea
and buffets, sneers at innocence that sleeps
upon the threshold. Help! A sly green man
is giggling in the leaves, enchantment creeps

in tangled vines. I run while yet I can,
my feet inspired by panic, lent by Pan.

Springtime Samba

As creatures stir with spring’s advance
familiar rhythms bid us dance,
cavorting while the skylark’s trilling;
nascent daffodils enhance
the grassy stage where lambkins prance.
Now winter’s pillowed, sunshine’s spilling,
glide to samba’s lively beat …
igniting passions with the heat.

Seashell's Whisper

Sweet bluebells blue and cockleshells,
white puffy clouds and playful swells
bedeck the gently rolling dunes
that harbour ancient mystic runes

and fairies whisp'ring tales that tell
of bluebells blue and cockleshells.
Soft floral crowns, pink-posied rings,
whose wafting scents on breezes sing

of sun-warmed sighs o'er ivory beach,
are drifting far outside their reach
for bluebells blue and cockleshells,
to wind up haunting distant dells.

Yet maidens poise on sultry sands,
mer-magic sown by fictive hands
bewitching sea-foam tint pastels
from bluebells blue and cockleshells.

Cathy Bollhoefer
copyright March 17, 2007

Ambidextrous


I write with my right hand;
articulate and methodical
chirography.
Ink weaves itself, like silk threads
against a virgin leaf.

What's right feels wrong.
Neatly drawn words
fence in honesty,
confining truth, like stallions
in orderly corrals.

Secrets unleashed,
sowed in the unconscious,
as infertile seeds that release

prosaic verse, lacking passion,
like desert sun-tinged sands
are dry and useless.

I use my left hand these days,
speaking aloud, truths
that never dared to dance from my lips.

Prowling promises, secrets
emerge, purge my past
of decadent pleasures, and sordid schemes
that seep through crevices,
as unseen touches that haunt
in restless sleep.

Poetry surges
across vacant pages -- animated.
Unfortunately the words
are much too sloppy to decipher.

TREASURES

Spring lightning!
At dawn it reveals naked Andean peaks,
in the evening it disrobes pastures.
Threads of rain reflect rainbows
between lake and heart-shaped hills.
I dream that you caress my cheeks
as we move, side by side,
along spirals that ebb and flow
like galactic tides.

I awaken on a bed of tender leaves.
You are no longer there.

Yesterday, capricious Spring
drew aureoles on the lake.
I gathered shells
sculptured by water nymphs
and lifted twigs whose smooth fingers
had dimpled the sandbanks.
Stroking algae, moss, tasting froth
in the hollows of my treasures,
I carried them home,
but they forgot their beauty on the beach
under showers of incandescent rain.

You were not waiting for me.

Today, I lie in the shade
of a blossoming apple-tree.
I listen to insects' concerts,
sense humming-birds’ ardour
as they sip nectar from half-open buds.
Their titillating wings remind me
of your lips, your soft skin,
of you.

A dogrose thrusts virile roots
deep into Mother Earth,
dropping petals from its branches
around my thighs.
I taste dewdrops on my tongue
and remember your naked body,
loving me.

I’ll carry these memories home.
Will you be waiting for me?

Petra's Splendor

Olive trees guard castle towers
where one weary, footsore soldier
paused enraptured,
spellbound silent,
several centuries ago.
He was homeward bound from fighting
far afield in Nabataea,
from that land of stone and splendor,
filled with Hellenistic grandeur
throughout tombs and striking temples
and its pillared palace walls.

Petra's fall went not to armies.


In a shining Baroque city
sits a dark-haired man of thirty
underneath a massive olive
whose extended branches beckoned
to a passing caballero
seeking respite.
As he listens to the birdsongs
he drifts back in time, recalling
how she gave her youthful body
and they loved in fervid frenzy
while a far-off, faint Angelus
pealed the faithful to their duties.
Flown, those kindled helix hours
when they romped through hills and canyons,
laughed and loved beneath one myrtle,
till their amethystine river
lured him to enchanted places
brimmed with charm and daunting skylines.

Flown away like fleeting birdnotes...
Oftentimes he thinks of Petra.

Reflections in Silver by JaxMyth


I

You could smell the dead
when the stone was rolled away.
My father rose inside me,
took my hands and head
and turned me to the echoes
reflected by the mirror's face,
"Welcome back!" they said.

II

Mirrors,
placed opposite in rooms
reflect to infinity,
reflect on the emptiness of,
on the fullness of

infinity.

III

I do not like to walk along the shopping strip
because the Butcher's window holds my father's face.
He mirrors my expressions, apes my curling lip
and always leaves me questioning his sense of place.

IV

Mirrors,
should be buried with the dead.
The dead should have one large mirror in their hands.
They should have small mirrors placed on their eyes
We should see ourselves
in the dead.

The dead can hold us tightly in their hands.
The dead can hold us in their eyes.
We can be made of silver.

The dead
are thin skinned and silver.
Their eyes and tongues are silver.

Mirrors
are silvered and thin skinned.

The skin of death is thin and is of silver.

Death can always be found
in a mirror.

Mam's Best Broach (revision -- 10/04/07)

Dragonfly – your topaz dazzles
like a yellow winged darter
hovering over reminiscence.
Camouflaged in amethyst
you settle on her plum jacket,
wings recalling fairies from
her bed-time tales; they frolic
amongst lavender and marigolds,
dancing in my dreams.