Poetry | Stories | Photography
Hair moving in the wind,
reminding me of the ocean waves.
Wild, dark hair moving, whipping and
lashing at her face, neck and body.
Ocean waves gather force,
reminding me of the storms and cyclones.
Wild eyes stare away,
lost in the ocean, seeking a lost lover.
Hair moving in the storm,
she fades into the saltwater spray.
The trees loom softly, wise, silent, judging.
The ground sounds under hollow footsteps.
The way is long, and the night moves in
until only the moonlight lights the way.
Shadows of many unknowns deepen,
yet fear does not live in this soft place.
The trees know someone walks among them,
they live and understand, so I talk as I walk.
Talking to the trees on the way to her,
telling them all of my secrets in hope.
The trees move as if my story is enough
to convince them that I may pass through
the forest and find her alive or dead.
I do not care. I must find her and tell her
I did my best;
that this world is wicked and cruel, yet here
she is safe from harm.
The trees know the truth of my heart, her heart;
they wait for the final sigh, then the emotions.
I crumble. She is dead.
The forest moves within me in ways I never knew;
I am home with her. She and I will go to that place.
I remember the way she moved
Blueberry stained lips
Warm fruit-flavoured skin
A flash of skin on high
Sitting authentically in the sun
Feeling things I could not fathom
Filling me with meadow hopes
Twinkling in the sun and the grey
I remember her on a carefree day
The echo of her strident voice;
lost in the memory of that remembered moment,
falling away from the sorrow.
She leaves this trace of hate,
found in the memory of all that I had forgotten;
holding on as I use the pen
and the paper to write every remembered word.
The echo of her voice fades;
feeling like myself in the moment again
as the inked paper burns away.
A grey, windswept day
her world and mine collided that day
I met her on my way
to find myself in paint only for the pay
Shadowy grey, cold day
her face coming to me in a certain way
If only I had more pay
to be beside her soul and paint her day
fading in the light
or
falling in the dark
she sees her reflection in the mirror
and
it is different from the photographs
her distorted mirror
of
her delusional mind
Plush flowers of her bloom in her garden
Purple and indigo shades move in the air
Birds chirp and talk of Amore and kisses
Bees buzz and race to find the best buds
Swiftly dancing to a tune of uplifting sorrows
Sweetly moving in time to the sway of flowers
Unable to concentrate.
Too much clothing inhibits the words,
so the bra hits the door.
Writing words remains elusive.
Words need more -,
so she takes off her dress.
Words start flowing fast,
nipples hang low to touch the desk,
a poetic masterpiece
falls from her pen.
ringlets on the parchment
sketched in charcoal and lead
a nose, a mouth, those eyes;
then, the face takes shape
intricate and fussy
perfection for my Cheri
the parchment is all her,
a gift for tomorrow,
perhaps it will be today
C & K 