Moonbeam Dreams

Silver light caresses the night, for                                      
it knows the shapes we make, the
smooth shadows of a forever
moon
glide over limbs entwined, never 
will this love fade.  On shimmering beams
a sensual dance, an echoing serenade w
ithout
pause lingers along with a heady perfume
bringing
a searing bloom that leaves you and me  
breathless in the glow of moonbeam dreams.

 

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Forgotten Better Days – Bop with Jilly

I took up Jilly’s excellent half-poem (her words are in bold) for the Casting Bricks August Challenge.  Bop on over there for more on the challenge and the form.

 

FORGOTTEN BETTER DAYS (a Bop)

Smoke gathers round the rim of my coffee cup
remnants of the skirmish in my untouched bowl of cereal
your suitcase sits by the door, the new leather one
not the weary worn green canvas with tags from our trip
to Paris last summer
leaving me with a million

Forgotten better days and a badly written play

Blurred words seep through the wall
you on the phone with some unknown
bitter pill, I can’t breathe
past the lump in my throat and the ache in my heart
the ragged corner of the playbill haunts
me from underneath a stack of fancy invitations I’ll never send;
sliding it out, the irony singes my cold fingers
Le Dîner de Cons
 
Forgotten better days and a badly written play 

Darkened room closes in as you cross to the door
tilting my world a deeper shade of sorrow

too many words left unsaid
no turning back when you make it look so easy
quiet moments turn to suffocate memories 
I toss the photo of us smiling with the bistro in the background.

Forgotten better days and a badly written play.

Collaborative poetry – Jilly/Lynn

Sunflower

sunflower sunsetPhoto – L. Burton

Follow the sun’s path, golden rays  
light up the days  
stretch to the sky    
stand tall and fly.

Powder blue canvas ready vase   
caress your face
kiss the morning
fields adoring. 
 
When the darkness covers your head
and blue bleeds red 
stars all around     
fall to the ground.

 

dVerse – Frank is hosting and challenges the pub to write a Minute Poem.

Sestina – At the Window

 

lace curtain window

Should you find the day vanishes
against the pane to imitate
darkness that slips its fragmented
fingers into your soul by chance,
tune your heart and mind to the breeze.
The magic windsong is subtle.

Whisper-play-on-shadows-subtle.
Gauzy breath ignites, fears vanish
into the gently stirring breeze
alongside mere imitations.
Fate welcomes a window of chance
grasp its hand before it fragments.

Framed in light, stars shine glass fragments
of new hope and not so subtle
cravings carve incredible chance
in concrete so as to vanish
stifled need from imitations.
Float new beginnings on the breeze.

Time and place shift through open breeze,
channel to connect fragmented
dreams only schemes can imitate
hearts align and shine through subtle
eyelet starbursts where seams vanish
on lacy frills and wind chime chance.

Tangled stars breathe life into chance  
caught up in a dizzying breeze
can’t sleep, don’t want dream to vanish.                 
What would we see if the fragments                                 
fixed themselves to the less subtle                                                   
surface? Where deep lies imitate.

Look within, no imitations
no scattered remains, just chance
blended with sunrise as subtle
as a  whimsical dancing breeze
so light, the teardrop-stained fragments
sparkle with joy, pain vanishes.

Trace hearts on the breeze, imitate      
nothing from past fragmented chance.
Sighs vanish into subtle night.      

 

I liked the window prompt from Tuesday and wanted to share some older photos that I took of windows near the Frisco Heritage Museum and this is as far as I got.  Wednesday is supposed to be a lighter day of writing for me, but then I took on this monster of a form.  I didn’t expect it to take me a day and a half to finish.  Not sure if I did the last three lines properly.  Out of all of it, that’s the part that tripped me up the  most.  It was kind of fun to play with, but let me just say if I never write another sestina, I’ll be okay with that. 

Poetic Asides