Tag Archives: healing

Arianrhod

Arianrhod

 

We walk at night my girl and I
and talk of life and love’s sweet ache,
beneath a silver dusted sky.
 

Half-summoned by the nightjar’s cry,
uncertain of which path to take,
we walk at night my girl and I,
 

unhook and take apart the lie,
unravel every dark mistake,
beneath a silver dusted sky.
 

Answers sought in every sigh,
curiosity’s thirst to slake,
we walk at night my girl and I,
 

discarding every alibi,
false promises we now forsake
beneath a silver dusted sky
 

Despite nocturnal lovers’ cry,
soft-sullen moon upon the lake,
we walk at night my girl and I
beneath a silver dusted sky.

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Exorcism

Exorcism

​It has taken until now to begin;
for my throat to form the sounds,
my mouth to mimic
the shifting shapes of sorrow
and release them into the air.
 

I am an infant, grappling
with the birth of language;
each word connecting
and disconnecting me
to and from myself.
 

Love letters crawl from the
tar pit. Black, sticky,
coated with grief, they slip
beneath triangles that
no longer tessellate.
 

As the banshee leaves
all that remains in the
blonde light of morning
is a girl, so much stronger
than me before you.

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fresh


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Freshwater West Path by Annabel Greenhalgh

 

warm freshwest breath
sweeps blue-grass dunes
 

saltwater licks
skin on skin skinny dips
 

unkinking brindled twists
and trying-to-forget-me-knots
 

twain
unravelling twine
 
 

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Filed under Couplets, Free Verse

Sweep


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Canopied
beneath a eucalyptus lull,
 

your lop-sided smile
sculpting light across the gloam,
 

you hold me
 

in a grey-green gaze,
send my cares scattering;
 

scarabs
before a soft-bristle brush.
 
 

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Strawberry Crush


 
 

We lull in hammocked hum of summer days,
cocooned within our hessian-tilted hush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Our skin soft-spun in gifted lithium rays,
hair honey-combed beneath Belenus’ brush,
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days.
 

Gold buttercupping chins in pollen haze,
our creamy cheeks full-fill with nascent blush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Oak blossom, broom and meadowsweet ablaze,
while grifting scents from freshly-cut grass crush
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days.
 

With eager lips we feast on juicy fraise,
tongues quenched as we devour vermilion rush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Suspended far above the ticking baize
and bathed in season’s smooth lutescent flush,
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 
 

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the seamstresses


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Isaac Israels (1865-1934) ~ Seamstresses at Atelier Paquin, Paris
 

~ for all the amazing women in my life, you know who you are
 
 

core spun thread
thimbled
through filigree fingers
 

slip-stitched seams
raw edges
tucked neat
 

silver grey pellicule
salved and selvedged
far from the fray
 

gaussian smoothed
beneath seamstresses’ gaze
 

tonight
there will be no unraveling
 
 

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Shapes


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting ~ Robert Frost
 
 

Nursing vanilla-caffeine infusion,
soft frost melting against the aga,
I watch them
 

sibling seed heads,
happily bent in solicitude
for their task.
 

In paper intricacies
patient adolescent soothes
her fervent perfectionism –
 

it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes sweetheart,
++++++++++++++++++++that’s what makes each one unique
 

As dusk gnaws at the
frayed edges of the day
I dance a solitary waltz
 

beneath
lacy snowflakes
strung from cobwebbed beams,
 

glistering
in the fractals
of their beautiful mistakes.
 
 

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Tempus Fugit


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Crepuscular nuance rides
narrow gauge; consumptive
curse of vagrant verse
leaves core scraped
and roots raked.
 

Quotidian drags out grey
doldrum days, till tempus
flees along the breeze.
Chronophage;
soothe, assuage.
 
 

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unexpected gifts


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

sitting with the future
gifting invisible trinkets
trickling reminisces
into fire-burnished bowls
 

flame-licked filigree
soft-silvering the air
shape-shifting mementos
hushed shadow dance
 

tarnished antique chains
in youthful hands
fingering fine-links
quietly plaiting strands
 
 

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Petticoat


 

She slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days,
a torn and ragged wisp I failed to grasp,
that withered in the mottled mirror-gaze.
 

Caliginous dysfunctional malaise,
shushed-silent but for dusk’s death-rattle rasp,
she slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days.
 

Bewildered child within the laddered maze,
seduced by sorrow’s vile puissant asp
that slithered in the mottled mirror-gaze.
 

Entombed within the muddy-mettled greys,
enveloped by seclusion’s gutt’ral gasp,
she slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days.
 

‘Neath fractal glitter, hope returned rephrased,
deft-delicately held with hook and hasp,
soft-swithered in the mottled mirror-gaze,
 

her party dress – resplendent polonaise
and in her hand the proffered, beaded clasp.
Wraith-like beneath her, lost it seemed, for days;
I found myself within her mirrored gaze.
 
 
 

~ a polonaise is a woman’s dress with a tight bodice and an overskirt drawn back to reveal a colorful underskirt or petticoat

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