Posts Tagged ‘red’

Kiss Me and See

Posted: September 16, 2015 in Love Poems
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I am the ember

to your flower;

but I can’t stay red,

and you won’t remain evergreen.

Let’s use each other up

while time allows

our beauty to be seen.

That Jazz

Posted: April 2, 2014 in Poetry
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Can you hear the trumpets blare?

Almost a call, a plead

to get up and dance.

Notes from the piano

simmer and the air teems

with heat and electricity.

The mellow tones sculpt an escape

for the inner beast,

and dye the room lusty red.

The drumbeats build up,

up, up, toward that

explosive thrill and slam

of every instrument letting loose-

at the climax.

O stuck Heart of mine,

you pine for the past-

can you not let go

of what was not meant to last?

 

There is no excuse, now,

not to pump Red to my cheeks-

I have grown cold, with you

behaving thus for weeks.

Wheat Fields Under Cloudy Skies

painting by Vincent van Gogh

Sky with its blue scales
does not daunt
pastoral fields- great pools
of emeralds, celadon-
the flowers at their fringes-
white stars, blood spots-
arcing under the wind.

The land is made of curves.
Clouds wheel in and out
of their own whiteness.
The wind is blurring
the world’s colors.
They are all within one another.

Where once was sighing-

the great cave opening

to a three-quarter moon;

white stalactites and stalagmites

shaped like gravestones;

a pink worm

pressed to the cave floor,

hiding its red underbelly;

air escaping in a hollow hiss-

now

the dark round emptiness of

it remains, and

the cave walls are close

but not touching,

and there is

no movement.

My white heart is gaining stains

and beginning to stink like garbage.

 

If you would have taken it,

it would have bloomed like a rose,

 

it wouldn’t become unsightly.

But, my dear, you’re not a good liar.

 

Truths bleed through the phone,

and I piece them together.

 

A half-truth is, after all,

a whole, stinking lie.

 

I’m wearing black now.

You’re wearing red

 

and consorting with a Union Jack.

You’re alive.

 

Where am I?

Not in your eyes. Not on your mind.

Look at the toy on display.

Printed on its hand is a small button

that says “try me”.

“Try me”, isn’t that

a lovely phrase?

Many have tried this toy out-

have pressed the button

and seen it jolt to life like a heart,

whirring and singing,

its cheeks glowing red.

Go ahead! Try it!

Try it! as so many have before.

They love it, but buy the ones

on shelves, the ones in boxes.

So many have tried this toy,

drained its battery song

by song.

The crimson in its cheeks

is dimming, its life

is fading.

Its electric energy is being used up.

Soon it will be thrown away,

singing and glowing no more,

dead.

No less an organ

than the cardiac muscle

and sinew

of a regular human heart.

This heart dreamt.

It dreamt of love

in two hands, clasped;

in four eyes, twinkling;

in lips and words, whispered

and shouted,

and gestures and laughter

and memories

that have yet to be made.

Some of these dreams

turned into wishes,

and the wishes became so strong

they turned into prayers-

much like a chick

turns into a fledgling,

than spreads its wings

and flies.

The heart was shattered

by promises

that held as much weight

as stardust,

sweet words

that disguised the taste of cyanide,

and its own dreams

which it believed too much in

and had its natural rhythm disrupted by.

The shattered fragments

of the glass heart

belong to me.

They dig into my ribs

and say don’t believe

too strong

in dreams.

“As it has been said: 

Love and a cough

cannot be concealed.

Even a small cough.

Even a small love.” ~ Anne Sexton, Small Wire

                                *

Winter is the time I fashion clothes out of fire-

snow bites my cheeks so, and I feel

unloved. 

When desire comes about

I grab onto it, and hook it into my chest,

and knit warm and heavy shirts out of its thread,

and I burn red.

In Winter I am this

vulnerable beacon of burning love.

I am exposed to the elements.

The flames are in danger of going out,

I will be left naked in the cold.

But if I clutch the threads to my heart,

and if I invoke the name of my desired one,

my heart burns, and the fires roar;

though winds rage

I am protected by these flames.

Who am I

but a vague mouth

preaching and conversing

to millions of unseen faces

who cannot see the teeth or tongue,

who can only imagine 

the redness,

the whiteness.