Anne Michaels, from Skin Divers; “Skin Divers”
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@darknesssetsmefree
Anne Michaels, from Skin Divers; “Skin Divers”
Between the sighs of sleep
Are the moments of us
The long drives with no destination
The moments filled by lengthy conversation
And the windswept wild in our untamed hair
Would your lips taste as sweet
Without the words of honey to drip from your teeth?
Does the light cast across your shoulders
Only dance with the rise and fall of your chest
Or does it waltz to the song of your life?
Could this be meant for me?
To spend my life at your side
Hand in trembling hand
And to love you endlessly
In spite of whatever the future might grasp?
Perhaps all we are given is this night
One last rotation to set sight on the moon
But how could I, after all this time
Waste my sight on her subtle glow?
What would be the meaning of admiring the night
If lacking my beloved summer stone?
here's to an early night, finally, and i think i'll be fine in the morning, or at least, ready to see the sun rise, as the plane takes off, and i think that means something— maybe not yet like belief, but maybe at least like willingness to start running that hundred-meter dash straight into my twilight fears, whether you choose to run by my side or not... (though, i would like to see just how much faster you are than me);
Spring has returned and the Earth has warmed.
My thoughts have been scattered like seeds.
I wonder how time can pass so quickly
When moments seem to drag on for eternity.
Do the fingertips of raindrops outside of my window speak in code?
Are the merely to lull me to sleep?
Our garden has started to root.
Soon the flowers will begin to bloom.
I wait patiently for the beauty they bring.
The morning sun who longs to kiss my cheek.
The breeze and her sweet songs
Playing effortlessly despite the rolling hills and bustling cities.
The river now rising from the banks with April showers,
Coursing as if the drought was never a threat to begin with.
It is said that coincidence can be found
By the madman who seeks them in everything.
I suppose I might have lost my mind after all.
How could the dandelion
Who grew between the cracks in the drive
Not be a sign that hard times do not make beautiful life impossible?
How could the cycling seasons not be way of reminder
That we too can begin again?
I know not.
I know.
i.
shall we wander then? across these long grasses
and past the far shoreline…
eclipsing into the breath where the green murmuring becomes
a blackness;
cool to the touch, a balm of darkness over the soul for when the only response to loss
is absence.
ii.
what lives in you but an abundance of love?
tender and full — eyes twinkling with life and a warmth lit like laughter,
echoes of the universe on the shores of being,
our eyes catch amidst the dance, yours filled with flickers of surprise shimmering into quiet mirth;
did you just tease?
and in the way I felt that, the answer was yes;
yes… I delight in you, your heart filled with tender flame, your earth warm hands,
gaze soft, eyes scorched with restraint,
your orbit pulls me in, will you take equal delight?
it's as they say - you know you've
fallen in love with someone when
they become the first thing
you want to see in the morning.
i still wake up every day hoping,
once more, we can abandon the world
and spend the whole day in bed.
"a first for everything."
d.b.a
Ask the questions that cling to the tip of your tongue.
Let them drip from your lips like raindrops on parched earth.
Let the questions flow freely, unfettered, unafraid.
For it is in the asking that we discover what we long for, what we yearn to know.
So don't hold back, let them spill from your mind, into the darkness.
Ask the questions that ignite your curiosity, your hunger.
And let the answers reveal themselves like stars in the midnight sky.
could i, a devil in my own right, tempt you to come this way?
whisper to me vagaries you keep, reserved only for the late night
when you twist and squirm in succulent spring heat— sleepless;
a sweet pink, those stirrings must be as they plague your restless mind—
i, a succubus in my own right, could release you, eat them from you;
you need only let out a sigh, and succumb to the night.
We're at Rest
...
Rainy spring Saturday— Soup pot boils on the stove, Home cleaned, and we're At rest after getting laundry Done that we'll never fold. Dishes are housed in Their cupboard and The rain soaks the outside. Raincoats dripping; tossed On the shoe rack. No sun out to smile but I Feel content inside.
...
Andi Leigh 03/23/2024, One Year and a Day
if one morning, you wake
to not find me by your side,
having slipped out quietly
from underneath the sheets,
you can find me in the backyard,
waiting,
writing—
hot and sweet coffee in hand;
Watercolor skies of dusk and dawn
Painted at the hand of celestial lovers
Give wake to petrichor in Spring.
Riddled amongst the clouds in endless cycle
Is the fountain of life and youth.
Should rain fall only to caress your cheek
Or to trail diamonds along your earthen strands?
Do the droplets fuel the Pisces Dragon
And guide your hearth to glow of gold?
Is it where your soul learned the way of water?
Know the creek does gently bend
In mind of where it flows.
How the frogs claim residency for their young,
But how the waters steady change.
All things will grow if given time.
See the ocean wave on shorelines
As if caressing them with soft hands,
But know still how it waits as prey to none.
Alongside coursing rivers,
Flora emerges from the valley womb.
Earth portrays her colors only by the light of you.
The buzzing hives awaken with the new day.
Bees draw nectar from the gentle buds,
Meant only to craft your voice that drips of honey.
Are you drawn to the sun stained waterlines?
Is it where you found your amber glow?
Concealed is the foxes' burrow within the fallen tree.
Magnificent still, though now hollowed.
The eye may deceive you in passing glance
For the shield of resin glaze is found within.
Would the bark still speak in tongues
Of roads less traveled by the breeze?
Beneath the soil loitered by emerald grass
Lay roots encased in mycelium,
Communicating in silence.
The mycorrhizal web is woven
Only to nourish new life by limbs of those before.
As the timberland tells of history long ago,
Does not the wind groan of her voyages
Above steadfast canopies?
Does the mountain teach the bear to roam,
Or the bear bewitch the somber stone?
Perhaps the aging leather stained by oils,
Or the autumn leaves along the riverside.
The hilltop where the cabin sleeps
And how it vexes coming nights.
Would the wolves howl for the moon
Though her longing is of the sun?
Do they know of songbird trilling
When the morning comes along?
The tree felled in solitude is heard,
Just as the evergreen forest still sings.
The melodies of many matter not
When adoration finds its muse.
Unwavering is the falling darkness,
Though the willow vines still sway.
The sun draws shadows beneath the horizon,
And another diurnal course is complete.
Revealed again is the sea of stars to the ever-changing tomb.
The vastness of the beyond compares not
To the constellations within your eyes.
Through the eternal cycling of existence,
They've aligned and written tales of their own.
Centuries of cryptids, gods, and myths
Found their faces amongst the stars.
Every story holds a place in passing time.
Legends since passed are not forgotten.
Surely you are written amongst them,
For even the ether dreams vividly of you.
Margaret Atwood, from Procedures for Underground; "A Morning,"
From the selvages of innocence, knowledge needing, she draws to the edge of the sun incised & contoured on the periphery of time bleached by the songs of his longing, corbelled on a pretense of dusk, the light looming as she appears now in a forming like frost patterns in glass a geometry of fire fractals of diamond, their stria aligned & enflamed the way a shore washes its stones, a lullaby of calm [emerges] sounding wave upon wave from the Sipapus of life - as he reveals love’s origins in a plein of topiary forms glistening in crowns of shadow where the gloss of his understanding yearns for her evening heart
______________________________
© K. James Ribble / Pretense of Dusk
The Sacrifice to Ancient Gods
Your cult leader's home is surrounded by snakes they slither through the grass and gravel Promising forever but providing shame and misery You call her mom, and I call her out Your family is a matriarchal cult And I'll not be one to join
The rituals and sacrifices in the lawn They bring children to the bonfire And while the goat burns They cheer in heathen words I'm next in line for the pyre
I watch as they don their robes and dance circles and circles with no end in sight The fire pops and the children laugh You brought me here and expected me to live You brought me here knowing I wouldn't change I was as solid as solid could be
The evil queen that is your mother laughs as they tie my hands behind with twine It cuts and breaks the skin You stand watching, the fire in your eyes I show no enoton as they place me on the stake But I stare at you and her and them
Holy fuck, that is hot.
look for the orange light , & you'll know that i'll be there . from the streetlamp outside my bedroom window , to the salt rock glowing inside , to the lights when the band played my favorite song , & i only knew how to cry - springtime feels awfully like the skin of something between a dream , and a fairytale ; a memory , & the tip of my tongue barely tasting , time . i've ridden in a million cars , seen the sun set from the kitchen a million times more , & i'd never ask to freeze that moment , like an ice cube snapshot that'd never melt , but if it just lingered a little longer than it was meant to , i wouldn't mind . just an extra half second longer for what was only meant to be a second - give me that it's enough .
A Thousand Leaves/Words
In a land of ancient lore and tales,
Where time stands still and nature prevails,
Lies a forest of a thousand leaves,
Whispering secrets, like the wind weaves.
Each leaf, a word of wisdom profound,
Telling stories of the earth, sky, and ground,
A language so complex, yet divine,
Spoken by the leaves, of this sacred shrine.
As the sun rises in the morning sky,
A symphony of rustles, the leaves sigh,
A passionate yearning to be heard,
Their words, like a song, not to be blurred.
The epic saga of life and death,
Etched on each leaf with every breath,
Words of love, pain, and hope,
From the depths of time, they elope.
Leaves of green, gold, and red,
A kaleidoscope of emotions, unsaid,
Their beauty a mask for the stories they hold,
Of battles fought, and legends untold.
Through the changing seasons, they endure,
Their words a constant, strong and pure,
A reminder of life's fleeting essence,
And the power of nature's resilience.
Amidst the rustling, I find solace,
In this world of chaos, a sacred space,
A thousand leaves, a thousand words,
A symphony of nature, my heart stirred.
For in this forest, time stands still,
And the leaves' wisdom, my soul does fill,
An epic tale, never to be told,
But felt in every leaf, young and old.
So I bow to the thousand leaves,
And the thousand words they weave,
A passionate ode to nature's grace,
In this vast, complex, and wondrous place.
Artists must view the world in their art forms I can't possibly be the only one Reading a text from someone Half of me crying and the other half already writing the emotions into prose
Do they see a sunset and pick out the exact shade of watercolor they'd put to paper first?
Or see the world in angles and lighting perpetually stuck behind their lens even after they've put their camera down?
They must, I don't see how they can't If the world itself feels like art to you It's no longer possible to experience Moments trapped alone in time
I'm here with you love but I'm already halfway to my desk putting pen to paper once again