Confession

I look in your face,

and see the gray stains

against a blue…

You open up,

and I’m dazzled

forever by radiance…

Could I survive

when your fiery lips

touching a  forehead?

And I run and I run

and I run to escape

in the chilled

green house

of yesterday,

as if never coveted

you... .

Yet every day

waking up

in the warmth -

grateful

for knowing

the gate...

Read more: d'Verse Meeting the Bar: Conceit

Neighbors

wallwuzz.com

The red glass
scattered 
around
my parking
spot -
taken -
crowdy? – no,
just because
it's more
comfy to throw
someone's car
closer to
entrance door,
not first time-
complain? - why?
we all share
the space,
in flock
we survive...

Read more poem: PU: Verse First: Walk in Gratitude

En bateau

Autumn on the River, 1889, John Singer Sargent 

It was her choice

regardless of virtue…

All suffering gathered

of gap between

habits and cycle

of dreams -

undo in the sleep

to lessen the pain

adrift,

cozy cocooned

in a brown,

Violet open for

straight-from-the-tube-look

of brother, the tides of Autumn…

                                                       Brenda Warren


Read more poems: Magpie Tales, Sunday Whirl

The calendar

play.google.com

In my calendar

days collide with days

in a kaleidoscope style,

parted with mirrors.

When I reach

the end of the week (fast!)

I barely recognize

the first day  (wee!) -

now it’s passed, past.

So for every day

I try to build

a design, a piece of puzzle,

a code to memorize it

for future reference.

I catch my thoughts

all planned:

encounters, applications…

I feel in control, accountable,

safe, secured my burden,

surrendered to the calendar

before

I escape in black hole

of my subconscious

mezzanine,

and only a cup of coffee

found under piano or

glasses -  in freezer

tell me it’s time

for earthy check in…

Read more poems: d'Verse Poetics , Poetry Pantry PU

Finger drill ode

a drawing by me

Who said, who knew

they have to move

independently,

one by one, curved,

being in charge

of the keys,

remembering

a special spot

on the top of

 black and

white

with ease;

and names,

given to face

a position,

a sequence number.

Bent, they could be

a bridge between

two little strangers:

the short - Mr. Thumb,

the thin – Mr. Pinky;

playing

‘Hide & Seek’ game –

nobody wins, when

the bridge rises up,

showing 'Okay'

for All the fingers…

Before. they. held. only. a pen.

Submitted for d'Verse: Form for All

Contact

a photo by me , edited in Picasa

The feline sniffs my hand, peering intently, as if reading lines of palm.

Sighing approvingly, perching right on two sides, and I'm drowning ...

drowning in olive sea of devilish eyes, lulling my vigilance;

swaying, shrinking to fit in between black stripes space –

a little note- me

in fuzzy fur latte named Whisky;

clinging for big secure black buoy of eye.

The feline sniffs my hand,

peering intently,

as if reading lines of palm.

Sighing approvingly,

perching right on

two sides,

and I'm drowning ...

drowning in olive sea

of devilish eyes,

lulling my vigilance;

swaying, shrinking

to fit in between

black stripes space –

a little note- me

in fuzzy fur latte

named Whisky;

clinging for big secure

black buoy of eye.

Read more:  Poets United: Verse First

The sign

my drawing + Picasa

    Close. A bitter taste.

    The sorcery of healing.

    The legend of nine tailed fox.

    The sign of fortune pace

    Holds tight, concealing,

    Manipulative voice entraps.

Read more:  Three Word Wednesday, Words Count With Mama Zen