Sea, turquoise and fuchsia

800px-'Moonlight_on_Ocean_(Kauai)'_by_Alfred_Richard_Gurrey,_Sr.,_c._1918,_Hawaii_State_Art_Museum

Sea,

wine-dark,

rolls on drunken waves

from sky to sky

and calls down boiling storm clouds

to drown my tears

in rivers of rain.

*

Voices in the fog,

ghosts of you and me.

I can almost remember

what we used to say,

but not how it felt.

*

It was the last time that we spoke,

and the words bounced back and forth

never taking hold.

I wish I could take those words

and twist them into the shape

of a bird or a rose

and give them to you again.

*

Take a song and sing it soft

to calm a stormy sea,

spread your crow black wings and let

the wind blow you safe back to me.

*

Beyond the humdrum

and the dismal damp

of November light,

sinking into obscurity,

the turquoise and fuchsia

and the flame red

of summer evenings

still sing to conjure up the moon,

and we will walk there

hand in hand beneath the stars.

All good things

One after the other, twitter prompted a string of bright poems today.

Redon.flower-clouds.jpg

If you watch the swallows’ dance,

and look with unclouded eyes

into the morning sky, the rose’s heart,

If you can see the miracle of life

In a drop of dew balanced on a petal’s lip

perhaps you will see me.

*

My breath withheld,

a leaf dancing between fire and water,

I wait to catch your eye,

your hand,

a silver thread,

hanging from a star.

 *

All good things

smell of the sea

or stars

or sailboats

or taste of pines

or red

or morning sun

or lie curled and sleeping

within the reach of my hand.

*

Bathed in silver light

the world is soft,

full of dancing shadows

and the excited cry of the fox,

blossoming like the pale stars of windflowers

when the sun’s voice is silenced.

Evening stars and falling petals

Twitter poems from a fruitful series of prompts.

Brooklyn_Museum_-_Moonlight_and_Frost_-_Alexander_Helwig_Wyant_-_overall

It is lonely in the depths,

the murk that swirls too thick

to see the many others there,

and the glimmer at the surface,

beckoning.

 

Is there really light

at the end of this dark road,

or is it wishful thinking—

like seeing eagles

where there are only crows?

 

Evening folds its wings

with the hushed tones of falling roses.

We sink into night

beneath the silent glitter of the stars.

 

Is it fate,

whispered in the breeze,

that brings me here,

to hold out my hands

and catch the petals as they fall?

 

Caught in the perfume

of desire’s dark wings,

pulled by the tide into unsounded depths

I reach out my hand to you.

 

Hand in the water

catch the ripples

paint my hair with seafoam.

Sing the songs of merfolk

before the morning comes.

Black pearls and moonlight

Twitter poems from yesterday’s prompts.

800px-'Moonlight_on_Ocean_(Kauai)'_by_Alfred_Richard_Gurrey,_Sr.,_c._1918,_Hawaii_State_Art_Museum

All tears are black

for sorrow is dark

and wells from the places

where no light falls.

 

Black pearls

are as rare as moonstones

and sundew

and starfish

that light the deeps of the ocean

with drops of pearl moonlight.

 

Gulls soar to the moon and back,

dusted with silver

and the grey of dead stars.

Their eyes full of worlds

we will never know,

their call, the voices of the dead.

 

Sun breaks on gleaming waters,

star-speckled,

moon-struck,

a hoard of light.

If my hands could hold it,

I would give it all to you.

 

At the epicentre of all worlds

is a heart that beats and throbs

in time to the wings of love,

the song of the turtle dove.

Fire and blossom

Yesterday I wrote a lot of twitter poems, each one for a different prompt, but all seemed to have a common theme. These are the darker one.

smoke

Through the haze,

mist,

drizzle,

you walk,

I see you melting into distance

like smoke from a dead fire.

 

After the fire

only black ash

smears its greasy trails

on the ground,

and a pain aches

like the burned hole

where my heart was.

 

Winds lash tender blossom,

rain tears sweet petals,

and I weep for the beauty lost

when the river howls

beneath dark spring clouds.

 

I have no memory

of another time

before the dark,

perhaps hidden in apple blossom,

waiting to unfold,

perhaps in the green mists

of another spring.

 

All is change,

the past slipped away

like fallen cherry blossom,

fragile memories,

out of reach

of your destructive fingers.

 

Is it so monstrous, the deluge

that washes away the blossom,

when in its place,

a million bright new leaves

are softly unfurling?

 

 

320px-A_gorgeous_Degas_painting_in_Buenos_Aires