tidal pull

betwixt the sun and moon
dark corridor bound with light
indecision reigns

The Sailor and the Windmill

windmill beckons
sailor's heart
a warped remembrance
of a wind driven life
on the waves

Inspired by Denise Baxter Yoder's untitled poem.

Dry and Uninspired

No wink, no nod, no wry retort
nor agony exquisite
to spur us into diatribes
and capers in the harlequin
soliciting the slightest smile
perhaps a little pat
from angels fallen and aloft
whose beauty shines
in frequencies that make us ache

oh what a sad existence ...
no. not even sad
for sadness hints
it is a thread
a trail of crumbs
leading to that seething cauldron
in which we gladly bathe, submerge
inhale in hopes of glance
or even eye-roll

Instead a blessed even ness
continuum of gray
not empty but just full enough
to keep the wants at bay
to feed a blissful ignorance
a numbness of the soul

Inspired by one of RC deWinter's Midnight Poetry offerings

from chaos

love is not monolithic
nor is it uniform
it's textured and dynamic
not unlike an ocean storm

attraction irresistible
lacks perfect symmetry
resulting in a give and take
resembling coquetry

and from this fine imbalance
'twixt the ones who take the chance
we see an elegant display
in love there's room to dance

natural setup

the Valentine's Day blizzard
will surely snow us in.
oh my!
whatever shall we do?

An Holy Exile

'neath my armor out of reach
where aerobe's sustenance does cease
a fungal janissary keeps
adversity at bay

balbriggan itch a minor change
accept I do this tiny bane
patrolling the abyssal range
at Chamberlain's demand

accompanist on arid rounds
abyss alone the normal sounds
absolute zero temp is grounds
for loneliness to bloom

accumulators keep me warm
ballistocardiograph informs
archaically abase the norms
of social privacy

araucaria I shall not see
while Jacobin adversary
my petronel and I make flee
who is the phantasm

so isolated in this can
in deep abyss might be the plan
to keep the masses well in hand
with Chamberlain in charge

come Sisters, Brethren on the line
awake accumulator whine
and target Chamberlain in shrine
accompanist no more

My Pleasure

lay still, my love
eyes closed, my love
let hands and tongue
lightly caress
and slowly bring
through whispered agony
that glorious crescendo

Inspired by an Eric Albin g+ post