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Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of

The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.

SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.

Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.

A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

all of the things

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.

We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this

WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.

Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.

Dry Spell I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
fleeting,
evaporating
through the cracks of
my fingers and high

above my head.
I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
words,
silences,
or actions
could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
or stretched
so far
that it dissolves into non-being.
I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo

BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare

untitledGold abundant at your feet,
Heart ripe and pumping on your sleeve,
And eternal admiration;
To say happiness has evaded you
Would be asylum-esque lunacy
For you have nothing to lose,
Fate is on your side,
The odds are in your favor infinitely
Do not waste the gift you’ve received

Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

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Local ColorSwallowed power lines, road sign,
rusted out cars: misshapen kudzu forests
darkly silhouetted in unsteady headlights.
Benevolent August nights,
givers of fog,
occasional street lamps,
back road knee bend curves,
sick-sweet scent of honeysuckles,
and heat so thick your skin collects
it to remind you later, when there's air conditioning.

Locust chanting sounds like "get on with it"
as two boys chug a fifth shared PBR,
empty cans, thrown from the car window,
inhaling rusted dirt road dust and silently keeping score:
five points for a telephone pole, ten for a mailbox, fifteen
for stop signs, already littered with bullet holes. (wh

Why do I do this to myself?So I can say "sexy" with
a straight face, buy clothes to
show myself and wear them out
on dates, display what's left for
men who'd pay for my half-size
salad, hold doors for me and tell me
how stunning I look, but take no interest
in anything I have to say.
So I can be what I've always hated
and everyone else always wanted:
bleached blonde and bronze
and half-dressed-
Impressing everyone
but me.
So I can feel the slow
rise of collarbone, ribcage through skin
and know that I'm finally fitting
in as I feel the deflation of
personality: turn on the bubbly,
learn to flirt, be objectified,
smile when the wolves
whistle, thr

The GamblerThe queen of hearts
never made a play
unless the chips were down.
All bets are off.
I'm holding the queen,
but the deck is incomplete,
the King ran off with
an uno card and
the Jack tried to
follow suit.
The hearts are broken…
I've folded,
my poker face is wrinkling,
I can't keep waiting
for a two of a kind
when the one-eyed
jack is always looking elsewhere.
I'll be playing Old Maid before
I win a hand.

An Easy ReadReaders are taught to use context clues,
make inferences, find symbolism,
draw conclusions from the words
on the page.
You were taught this,
same as I, and have perfected
it in the same manner.
I’ve left bits and snippets
all over the thousand ways
you have to read me.
I made it easy,
don’t see how you couldn’t
see the truth, written everywhere,
not near as dense as “Leaves of Grass,”
which you claim to love so dearly.
Clearly, you‘ve made the connections
and are less than impressed with me.
Otherwise, you never cared enough
to notice, I’ve shown you so much
of myself, and you’ve left me with
no

NestingTwo birds twittering in a tree
largely ignoring the lonely eyes of the hawk
who's flying as close as he dares.
And crying out to belong.
A hawk never knows its place.
They're my favorite creature,
eyes that pierce your soul
until you burn inside with the
same loneliness they feel.
But he is unsympathetic,
eyes never moving from the
two birds to notice the girl
looking up from the ground,
wanting to get nearer
and never knowing how.

I Ain't No LadyI freely admit it:
I ain't no lady.
I never cared for frilly dresses,
diamond earrings, or the rest:
as far as I'm concerned,
worn-in blue jeans are
a girl's best friend.
I never cared about high heeled shoes
like those fools who go chasing men
showered in expensive perfume,
flitting about the room like a candle fly
to the first eyes she can make light up.
I can cuss as pretty as you please,
and even if you don't, that's me,
take it or leave it.
I get wild hairs and notions
and follow through.
I never knew my place,
but I'm damn sure it ain't in the kitchen.
I prefer a shot glass to a demitasse
any day of the week and
th

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Desiderata

by ~girlwhosangtheblues, Aug 14, 2007, 6:42:20 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Hands, chest, fingers, back,
eyes with black hole tunnel heading
soulward, stoic, then sordid whispers,
distorted by shifting, lunging, lifting,
leaning forward, moving back,
supressing, depressing, undressing
expressing obsession, a predilection,
to erect a monument to a
lifetime of pent up good intent,
then spent and going slack, exhaling,
words failing, chest heaving, drinking the sound
of labored breathing, sweat dripping,
then slipping back into
the curtain of the dark of evening.

Desiderataby ~girlwhosangtheblues

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2007-2013 ~girlwhosangtheblues

He said "This has potential."
I knew that.

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~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Love

`creativemikey Jul 29, 2008 Professional Photographer

So random in your emotions

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~girlwhosangtheblues Jul 30, 2008 Hobbyist Writer

I think it's a woman thing.

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~MedievalKnight Jun 30, 2008

Your words paint sensuality like a stroke of a red sable brush on fine linen canvas.

Reply

~girlwhosangtheblues Jun 30, 2008 Hobbyist Writer

That's a high compliment! I really appreciate it, and the fave as well.

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