Love in a Snow Globe

Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures.

We scoped our future with a violet sky
and steeped icing sugar into the clouds.

We mapped a journey around our world:
within our confines, and built a hideout,
a miniature landscape.

As flakes fell, year on year, our kisses
morphed into symbols on the cave walls,

until the blizzard
swept us into its clutches.

 

 

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The Magic of Snow Quartz

woman-on-beach

(first published by Atavic Poetry)

You sing a dissonant song to the waves
that wrinkles the sails of ships,
each note wind-whipped into the hollow
of seashells, suspended as a sound print.

You let the day swallow you whole,
and from its jaw hold the moon’s gaze,
you do not see moths flirt lamplight flickers
or gulls hover the bounty of the dunes.

You watch an ethereal mist descend,
people leave the Cirque de Nuit with halos,
while your hair becomes shadow-play
on the sea-wall, your fingers frozen.

As you sleep, your nightmares are written
on the canopy of the Big Top.
When you awake, you see only fog
and feel a pull at your solar plexus.

You watch bleak clouds circle sky
and do not notice the drama unfurl,
the rush of caramel and salt air
or the crisp leaves lift and swirl.

You have forgotten to forget,
until something the gypsy says at the tent
as you pass along the beach,
when she crosses a white stone into your palm.

 

All rights reserved.

Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures.

Innocence

bubbles-13526537278UX

You are the ocean’s kiss
their ride across surf, the cascade
of refracting prisms, the luminescence
of dawn – under skin you receive
unconditional love; a perfect creature
of rose-white complexion.
In the depths of your water-world
your fingers grasp, flick, ready
to unfurl. Sea-horses spin, faeries hover,
as you ride the dolphin’s back – your parents‘ wish.

You blow big bubbles in a quick-
fired stream, chase them as they travel
the crazy-paved path. The breeze whisks
them into an eggshell sky, up, up, they float
and rise – much taller than you. You construct
a play den from chairs, blankets, bricks and twigs.
A net curtain for the door. Open Sesame – to get in.
You start to wonder why the earth is flat,
when also it is round. If you could ever fall
off. You play on, without sound.

You move in symmetrical ways across
a luscious green lawn, grass blades strong,
early summer. Now he’s the doctor, you’re the nurse—
scene shift—now he’s the sheriff and you’re the squaw,
others characters now peripheral.
He circles you, his eyes molten, unlike eyes you’ve seen
before. You run, you fire..one, two, three.
He escape the arrows. His eyes, his eyes, oh, oh his eyes,
how they never leave. His lasso catches you,
all is slow motion – your first kiss.

 

 

All rights reserved.

Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures.

Listening

cane-shade

I talked all evening,
but you weren’t listening.
You did your usual thing -
looked up
every now and then,
said a word,
then I’d have to start again.

If I’d shouted
and made a bold display
you wouldn’t have heard.
You might have
made some remark
as though you had,
but you weren’t
listening.

My silence
from the balcony to the bed,
the touch of my hand
on your skin, the kiss
I gave you on your back -
you were listening then.

 

All rights reserved.

Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures.

Frou Frou Mimi

silver-brooch-rose

(A poem in the Sestina form)

Her bodice, tied and criss-crossed with silver,
cinches her waist to an hourglass Dita.
Miss Mimi Parfait strides the stage in high
black heels, her hair jet-beaded; flicks feathered
fans, her crimson lips pout for his attention,
her movements sharp, controlled and sensual.

As she weaves around the stage, this sensual
huntress owns the space; it feels like her silver
screen. Pulls, frou frou, winks for his attention -
and as an idol, so risqué, with Dita-
style décolleté, she shakes her feathered
fans: the barometer goes bom, bom, high.

A rush of adrenaline sends her high;
she smooths her stocking from the thigh, sensual,
slow, down to her toe – and sweeps her feathered
fans into a shimmering arch of silver.
She aims her pout, chic a la Dita,
to ‘bourbon man’ – she likes his attention.

Her bump ‘n’ grind demands his attention.
Hips snap, left, right, then circle – he’s as high
as The Shard: thinks she’s hotter than Dita,
jaw drops at her shimmy, shimmy, sensual
display, as her fringed costume sways, silver
eyelashes dazzle. Hot, fluttered, feathered.

Suggestive glances behind her feathered
fans, gets too much, rouses raw attention -
knocks back his bourbon, she flashes silver
garter, puts d- into derriere. High
on a pedestal she’s his dream: sensual
pin-up, real, Mimi, move over Dita.

In dreams, she aspired to be like Dita-
a vintage, retro-style parade, feathered,
always feathered, and now with a sensual
touch, places the tip of her glove, attention,
between his white teeth, he bites – now he’s high,
the glove slips from her hand like quicksilver.

Move over Dita, he wants her attention;
her feathered caress, her natural high -
her sensual touch, on a bed of silver.

 

All rights reserved.

Photo: PublicDomainPictures.net.