Her Twinflame

Turning me “athlete” to scan some lines, your Yassyness? This your way to help me recall the times we waltzed (separately of course) I’d walk downtown to the civic center where a junior high school business math teacher gave ballroom dance lessons and I learned to undress my shy some times and while we never learned to tango, I felt some teasing from way East – or was it so far West it was East? This dance you write and share is so much a bubble of unsupressed joy and giggle I find us both bathing in teenage lives knowing all the while a world shares this – and their own interpretations interpenetrating mine and yours and theirs and ours. You gift so much, Your Ladyship. And you have more than earned my thanks and whatever can this humble step be called…Praise.

yaskhan

She sees his face in the white of moon
In azure reveries, she feels his soul holding her in the indigo of night ..
In the hush of sleep, his lips ignite in a moonbeams song..eyes caressed by starlight- humming a lullaby .. a jasmine rhapsody on a stardust cloud
She inhales the scent of his tranquility as he lulls her to the hues of the night
They breathe together to become complete
A sacred blending of two souls
Waltzing across the starlight.
In the light of dawn, as the sun laughs into her eyes
she finds a memory living in her heartbeat
a temptation of hope..
Flaming into an endless devotion.

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Slipping On A Teardrop

What soft fire you bring/ melting into your poem/ you build forever*
*(also: fantasies, sympathies, symphonies…Thanks, Yassy! I treasure you (and your glossy sometimes groaning with meanings words. J

yaskhan

I slip on a teardrop to fall into a diamond sky. Sapphire winds glaze my eyes, potent tears drip through midnight hours in an ocean of moonlit tides.

Like a shooting star
Travelling light years in a multiverse;
I ache for a wish.

Swirling in aromas of petalled darkness, tangerine stars flame into vignettes that glide on musings in night's primitive caress.

Lingering...
Whisper of unmet dreams-
My breath draws a sigh.

The bruise in my heart sweetens the pain of yearning, heartstrings pull a song that brings the sky into my heart.

Soliloquy--
Flower-child swathes herself
Bohemian

Starlight grazes my aurora spirit, reveries silken in the gauze of soul's palette--tints of dawn's melody and solace of darkness trace.

Journey of shared tears
A path of forgotten love--
Heartbeat of my dreams.



#haibun, #haiga, #haiku

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“All ‘Preparations’ So Far…”

(August 25, 2019)

All preparations

‘Dee’ through ‘Gee’ have not helped.

Next: use some lotion?

*(It took me years to figure out what was standing off in the wings hiding itself inside that long cardboard carton as Preparation ‘H’ was extolled shamelessly just between salad and mains. The other excuse was “It’s the news: everyone wants to know the news” so we put up with personal advertising called commercials. That’s why CDs and DVDs – and we had LPs even then – were so rarely used to intervene ‘twixt supper and surgery.)

2506

Ants are everyday: Lakota learned the cry: Today Is A Good Day To Die from fire-ant scouts who delight in letting ankles “feel (or feet) the heat. And, since there commonly is but one “her” in a colony, what was Queenie doing out on a scout? Generally, like bees, the soldiers and workers sexless…which is another argument again’ communism – and communalism carried to a red-book fairthewell. Put a false sugar bowl outside may be your only hope, aside from hiring your local aardvark.

Cat Nap Revue

kill the scout
send her back as warning
to the ant army

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2507

Wait’ll you wish you had brought your polarized sunglasses so yo can find the slipped clear “eyes” you put someplace new…hah! our foggy season comes with a chill nor’east limp breeze after a pleasant soaking the day before and then you must go about with a knife and fork for to cut a clear path and toss aside the big chunks to mark the route. “getting old gets old” too close to true…this unsissy stuff called ageing keeps lurking at the middle of my vision these days, no longer a peripheral player. How do the nono-genarians cope: all the octo’s have fled for condos cared for by platoons of carpet-footed “help.” Think I shall go bang a few pots with long wooden spoons this a’ternoon to draw attention to a nearing tropical disturbance. I always though fog that doesn’t clear up is called cataracts. Or is that mere de-nial?

Cat Nap Revue

stumbling in fog
that doesn’t clear up
getting old gets old

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