Dragon Breath on Morning Water

At long last, like August light, Faulkner's mention bemoaning end,
The lake's clear glass surface showed breath upon it,
Wrinkling suddenly, as if, after sighing,
Some unseen hand smoothed it out, carefully, like a coverlet for fish,
and
The long stringing lace of lake bottom greens.

Rolling forth, sheen glimmer blinked amongst the folds,
Reflecting shine eyes, appearing and disappearing,
Like gigantic fireflies
Displaced, and drowned, yet preserved under glass, amidst the waves.

Docking Indigo

When the indigo ink of the evening flows out across a sky bleeding into soft whispers and gleaming glimpses,
The stars shall, with clear, pointed angle fingers, lead the small, spare whisps of words
Escaping between lips - between us, lightening quiet -
And capture them, like quick hands, to breathe them back, softly, in
Etched echoes of sparkle, sprinkled without care, across an endless, undulating canvas.
I shall catch the quick breath against my mouth, as your lips move softer than a feather, across mine, in an almost-kiss,
And disturb the wheeling moon, in its winding arc, as it bounces beneath clouds, dodging the dark side of itself in earnest moves, like a chess piece seeking to show its face, in a mate-move, all the while
Gliding like a sudden, shooting shower of meet or might
Upon which we wish, and linger,
And love, languidly.
....oh, languidly, like
Your sangria tongue against my ear, mapping the invisible baton and slow turn of
Step, and circle, as it is mirrored and measured, in the sway and sigh that is the
Matched-more-precision whirl of
Planet We.

Pillow wok

If, in this pale liquid sunlight finger, I draw your smile as it is now,
Murmuring softly against my ear, amidst this pillow,
Then there shall be a burst of warmth
Forever embroider-emblazoned on these white plains of
Weaving,
And even when my eyes close - be it death or pause (for little death is not so,
And in play and patter all bears thinking and doing, to say we did)-
The beacon of your eyes will blink and wink and
Crinkle wrinkle
Against my chilled
nose.

Jar Saids

Steak,sangria,sanguine and sultry somnambulance, soothing and song filled - sashay in summer, seeking;

All these appetites, controlled like a chilled cellar,
Shielding my sleepy need from the soul-destroy stripes of
Forget's
Seasonal disorder, stifling and cloth-choked, stuffed brutally, finally, punishingly on to
Shelves filled with stolen thought, quick kiss, and quiet sigh, preserved.
I see my eyes peering out of the caged and caught glimpses there, unpainted.

You are spring, and speak, and sap, this late summer,
Rising through roots clinging deep and early to the sleep of
Neglected now,
Breathing surely, strangely, softly,
Towards the honey hum of
Need.

Summer of Surprises

Summer is uncharacteristically seasonally mixed this year;
As if the earth has suddenly decided, perhaps, that it likes all seasons,
(Except for the sleep of winter), and, so, gives us a taste of each, in the space of
Several weeks:
The jalapeno of summer makes us sweat, in the best of ways, beneath the
smell of coconut oil and the beach towels we only see several times a year;
The crunch of homemade bread (breathed in like freshly shampooed hair, undried
And flung about, stinging one's cheeks in wild abandon) complete with the
Tang of butter, melting and gleaming on lips, fed with searching palms;
And the sudden crunch of green apple, jesting of spring, although the green is more held in this round orb, remembered, with its spurting juice upon a lover's nose (wicked granny, not so old after all), than in the dew-dropped leaves surrounding of
A few weeks back,
Made more surprising, by the painting of Brie, coating our tongues with honey warmth,
which
Ices its sudden, slick, summit.

We Beings

If this existence, in which we are orbs of a larger part,
Shells of the one shell,
Dust collected, into bins of we's,
Amassed carvings of longings for Happy Play by the
Great Being, Breathed Into; gentle empowered Marionnettes of Living,
Then it is enough that we recognized each other,
Children in Paradise,
Until Now.
Now is the leaf, unfurled;
Now is the Nectar and newness,
The Fulsome Fruit, and Juice of Being,
And More-Than-Seed, spilling Joy
Into the
Corporeal Expression of
More Now.
It is Here-we-are,
Gently set into a Garden,
To Grow as
We will.

Lip Liner Flight 99

There are small lines about your lips.
I think that each line tells a story of all the stories, concerning skin, and art,
And Love,
And with every imprint of Time upon us,
Be it Sorrow or Joy,
Meaning is impressed on the shell of us,
Like a gentle Sculptor's Model,
Developing nightly.
I like to trace them, softly, in the darkness, those small lines,
Imagining the words, (coaxed from you with low rumbles and beard in neck growling)and watch the breath that comes with their Awakening,
Which seems, like Magic, to Rush to Touch,
Summoned.
You call it "Fight Against Resuscitation", but I notice, cheekily,
Your lack of struggle.
You always said you loved empowering things you
Desired.
Am I just a Hand, then, after all, shifting in this Shape with You?
Come! Sway with me, this little while, Sweet, and I will show you the way
Hands Speak with
Silent Sigh.

Black is Beautiful

I thought of a bloke from Cross Harbour, whose "sentence", it seems, wasn't glee;
His main fault? A knowledge of barbers, and living that idea of "Free".
With shares and his bust, I confess great more trust,
Cause he said , "You can break me, not bow me."

Breathed

What are these stars, rocks of glint and glimmer, stolen from your memory of love,
Whirling in the distance;
Flint and flight, of substance, and shimmer, and shaking;
Like touch upon touch, when Michaelangelo was touched so, and awakened, Blinking;
Brightness and born, alive to self
and met,
Awash in notes of then, and this, and though;
Sweet sweat, and sway, of Float and Feather,
Arising and arisen
Within and Without gaze,
Forgotten and Begotten, and Made
Real, from this small finger print in the Earth,
Pressed for a moment, with a sigh, by a kind Hand,
Remembering substance, and, softly stroking the
Silence of it,
Quietly speaking Earth again
Into herself's eyes,
Gently gazing back at him,
Softness borne of
Such Great Art,
For his
Completion.

Dawn's Interesting Definition for the Day

Botox: An exchange of cellulite between the depressed and the truly twisted.

Spit and Apples

Oh, afternoons.

The bright sun belied the crisp of leaves, and slight breeze, as we lay the blanket amongst the trees. Strangely, I was unafraid, despite how intensely you were staring at me, smiling. Of course I was unafraid: it was you, and I had no need to fear you, despite your quiet, and mine.

You kept saying, "You know, I've never really been on a picnic before. This is almost surreal."

I laughed, and said you could not possibly be Canadian, never having been on a picnic with a woman before. You said that no one had thought it a good, valuable use of time. I sniffed, somewhat contemptuously, at the idea of someone being so pompous. Life is not complete with at least one picnic in one's life, particularly if one appreciates the simple perfection of feeding food to another person, savouring a swirl of wine on the tongue - with enough time to taste the one lovely glass of it, which accompanies the decency of a good meal - or something. (I tend to elongate, when I try to summarize what I thought at a given moment. I think in layers, and it gets difficult, particularly when you smell like strong sandalwood soap, which I adore, of course...)

I remember you said that you thought that cheese, bread and apples had never tasted quite so exquisite, as I fed them to you, but you kept rubbing your face against my leg, so I kept having difficulty getting the food into you, which was terribly frustrating, although it left me tingly, as I recall....I sigh.

In any case, I said I wanted you to tell me why you thought I was interesting, after all was said and done, and you got this funny smile on your face, when I said that I found it odd, considering what perfect specimens of womanhood with which you were constantly surrounded. I wasn't being mocking, or jealous, when I said it, either, as you know - which I think is a terrible waste of time, like being petty - just rather introspective, since I am not particularly stunning, physically, although I have some decent qualities, and my chest is still fairly decent, at 45 - which takes some work, and a small investment fund in good support bras, frankly.

Then I said I loved your hair, because you looked like John Lennon, and it made me want to roll us both up in the blanket and fall asleep, after some major exercise, as long as we were naked, and it didn't get too cold outside, that night. Also, I was somewhat worried that a dog might come and pee on us, for some strange reason, which I think ruined the romance of the moment, although you spit out your apples, and wine came out your nose, for a full five minutes after I said it, while you laughed and tried not to choke. I had to pat you on the back, and I got quite concerned, when your face started changing colour, although I really would not have minded giving you mouth to mouth, as long as you didn't try and bird share your chewed apple with me, which probably would have made me feel rather sick. (Some things are meant for one person to savour, and discuss with someone else. It's like sharing gum you've picked off the road; there's a reason your mother warns you not to do it, after all. It turnes out it's a little nasty, darling. Ech.)

Anyway...where was I? Right; apples spewing. When you had recovered from humourously regurgitating at a particularly awe inspiring moment of possible dramatic necking, etc., in which we did not engage at that particular moment, because you said you thought a bit of throw up had become lodged in your throat, which I thought might have ruined it, somewhat, despite me dying to, after all....well, then, you sighed, heavily, with tears in your eyes, and said..."Oh, ask me another time." (You were still trying to breathe.)

I said I would, and I mean to, one day soon.

Scrubs for Peace

Azure and agile, spark and murmuring silently, muse and moment,
Only speak.
Speak, and there will be a movement, here, in my quiet, that I have hidden,
Kept safe, guarded and shielded
Against Death.
Held here, in the ink of night, ink of heart, ink of flame and of flower,
It has watered the garden of forget, the blossom of try, and the field of hope.
It has danced, when my feet could not, dragging, like the awkward placement
of Me
in My own life.
I feel I intrude, somehow, without you.
See, here! Here is this small mountain, raised towards your hand. It is a proud breast, this.
Strange, how skin is current, then, after all.
Strange, this soft sweet now, and warm, and breathe,
When all the earth is shrieking with
Permutations of its Own Agony.
I want it to Heal Itself.
Circle's half, here is my piece; hold my hand.
We'll not know who is Assisting.
It's Irrelevant.

Self Defence

"What do I look like, a pussy?", he said, glowering.

She paused - as was her wont - thoughtfully, pursing her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him.
The words, when they rolled softly from her lips, were punctuated by perfectly enunciated consonants.

"Well", she mused, "my only other alternative was asshole, and it seemed rather rude, frankly."

Three people, struggling mightily to control their sudden coughing, left the room, as the door clicked loudly behind them. A muffled kind of strangled sound - rather like screaming laughter and choking - sounded from the hallway.

She smiled at him, fondly.

Brevity.

"What do you dream?" he said, softly.

"You", she said, quietly.

"Why?" he said, gently.

"Because" she answered slowly.

"Often?" he said, hesitantly.

"Enough, and always", she said, honestly.

"Is it good?" he asked.

"The best", she said.

"Do I wait?" he said.

"Unbelievably", she said.

"That's good", he said.

"I know", she said.

He smiled.

"Like life", he said.

She smiled.

"Now", she said, and kissed him.

A.I. Make Up, and self realization

What is this instant, sheen-like spin, that settles around my mind like vibrating protons
Urging blood flow, within the sphere that is my imagination's cortex?
I would say bees, but they are nothing, and everything, like electron mix
Of next, coaching towards Total Self, and Other Self, and Half.

Mad science, when pressed; yet not anything I am prior, only yet.
If air move dance is yet, and perhaps pause is then, then now can only be sigh possible
Hitting Matter.
Oh, then, Reaction is Opposite, and Equal, Truly, madly, Deeply:

Vortex, born Star, Genesis, and Shangri-La of Touch and imprint, and Mac.

Dent Progress

If I press my hand against your cheek, a remembrance of my body imprints, momentarily, upon your skin, and then you become yourself again.
I am just a momentary dent, in the beingness of your body, springing back into itself.
How different, my soul, when I softly open myself to your murmuring exploring,
And all that is new and wonderful about joining, and searching, and striving for more than dent - to closed eyes, to opened eyes, to staring, breathing
Straight stare, total tremble, at once, while so, at gaze staring back -
Is in the sigh, that always waits
For mine.