Only a Sigh

The dark summer night
hid their desire
till the stars came out
and kissed their skin.

Her breath came slowly
only a sigh
but he inhaled it
till it filled his soul.

The rhythm of the night
lulled her to sleep
and he blew out the stars
with only a sigh.

Camping Out

Only if you

have pulled your hood
closer to warm
your cheeks,

have seen the sparks
lifting crackly red
against the sooty sky,

could you know
the brightness
of this tender moment,

rising hope for the possibility
of our tomorrow
deep within the shadows

of this chilling night.

PROMPT 5: Write a poem about too much information.

My Glass Was Filled Again

Covers rolled over me
clouds billowed past
my distortion of day,
my mixing of night.

Dreams dropped the words
that slumber used to describe
my mixing of people,
my confusion of time.

Somewhere in the pillow
that holds my jumbled words
my poem was left in pieces,
my frustration wakes again.

I thought I would remember
all the feelings of the dream
my clarity of morning,
my forgetfulness of you.

When Shadows Don’t Match

My shadows
are supposed to stay
where they are put.

That is the law
of windows at night
and lawns when the sun
is tired.

Reflecting,
I must leave the darkness.

I will rip my feet
from the black socks
that connect me
to that distorted lie
in the carnival mirror.

I am not that girl.

I will put my socks in the washer
tumbling until
one is lost forever
and I emerge
clean.

Guest Poet: Melanie Bishop

Poet, living and writing in NYC, sharing her work on her blog: Cassiopeia Rises

Behind Your Eyes

look, look deep into your eyes
behind the color blue
______rimed with darkness
a nebula world, one few know
few care, few will ever see

in twilight, your eyes open
letting in the nights shadows
_______shadows that fill you
shadows that complete you
weaving webs of deceit and fear

beware the dimly lit paths
aglow around you, drawing, pulling
_______like spirit lights on the moors
we will suck you dry and snatch your soul
no second chance, no escape

Extreme

extreme sadness
____heart empties
into river of tears
hardens
as your face fades
nothing, nothing left,nothing
no you ,no us
_____alone with
just shadows of where you once were

Deja Vu…..

old creaking joints
skin drawn tight
across skinny bones

lips once soft, smooth
pulled slightly apart
reveal yellowed teeth

hideous form caught in time
indurated, it blinks while dreaming
of tea party’s and lacy pink dresses

feeble, mind dull, it stops and grins again
my face, it’s face slid from it’s once firm place
a face that shadows me

useless, feeble, slow when once I know
yes, once I know I ran deer footed
and laughed, laughed out loud

when once I wore those lacy pink dresses
and danced the night away
trailing soft summer flowers

Fleeting

fleeting are our days
count count the hours as they pass
petals drop fore lorn

Bag Lady

Bags tied to an old cart
Again and again she stops
Garbage her only friend
Lonely and homeless
Agatha walks on unknown
Day after day seeking cover from the cold
Yielding in the end to the ice and snow

Did I Forget

did I remember to forget your kiss
drinking while softly singing your song
did I run out in the rain, too late
where now nothing but silent shadows remain
will you fade from my heart full of pain

Contact Melanie at:

http://cassiopeiarises,blogspot.com
beloved49@gmail.com

Sleeping With the Enemy

Night has its routine,
comforting in its
sameness,
the way my hand
must find its place
next to my chin,
my knees tucked up,
toes seeking
a night breeze.

Then my eyes close
searching
for swirling sparkles
that morph
with blotching
nothingness
pulling me in
to the same old,
same old
fears.

I am loosing
this pillow fight,
too old
for a lullaby,
too old to scream.

All the same,
I wish I didn’t
dream.

The Man in the Moon Has No Hands

I walk in socks
unwilling to wake
the sleeping
as I pass the window
showing multiple images
of myself,
distorted and untouchable,
in the blackened night.

It is easy
to slide quietly
between the pains
of glass
and into that darkness
where my regrets
leave an untouchable
mark.

I can stay in the shadows
as long as the moon
is on my side
and keeps
his hands
to himself.

Bridge Support

Connecting South Curry Street to North Curry Street,
the city begins its race toward progress
building a viaduct over the her garden
spanning three gridiron railroad tracks.

The coal dust settles as the trains roll by
with warning horns echoing off the concrete.
The cats begin to wander farther from home,
her concern for them not allowing her sleep.

Her fear settles on the train’s slicing wheels,
while her cats scurry from their grinding sound.
Their stomachs empty, no mice to chase,
rumble like the trains that scare them away.

She sings for her cats to come in from the rain
that nourishes the leaves of her buried potatoes
growing under the viaduct, not under the sun,
hardly producing a bagful to harvest.

The city waits for her elderly years to wither.
They want her land for a convenience store
where people can come in the dead of night
to buy their cats milk and a sack of potatoes.

Not So Black and White

Before being demolished today, the Skunk House,
with haunting empty rooms was an invitation to teens
who wrote on the walls and destroyed furniture
while stabbing a dressmaker’s dummy to death.

City officials, knowing my mother,
and thinking of possible items of value,
suggest she venture in to see what she wants,
perhaps there are books her children could read.

I beg my mother to let me go with,
not afraid of spooks or terrorizing ghosts,
or the stories kids tell of murderous men
and women who shriek in the dead of night.

I win her over with my false bravado,
so we creak open the door to let in the sun.
The boarded up house sighs dust in our eyes,
but it can’t detour us from going inside.

Dangling strings trip us from a smashed violin,
the sound of its music now dead.
Not knowing the price of the name
“Stradivarius,” we decide upon something else.

We go home with a chair between us,
brown plush material faded and torn,
nobody else to want it, or notice it gone,
or a book of poems lamenting the dead.

While our door is open, a white cat walks in
and I drop my end of the chair in fear
because behind it comes the Cat Lady,
a real living terror walking into our home.

Rushing behind my mother’s skirts, I reveal
my ignorance of haunting things
while my mother in her compassion,
hands over the kitten, unable to calm my fears.

Chalk Smears on the Sidewalk

She is small
allowing only eighty years
to peek out from her brown babushka.
She frightens us,
her language different, indiscernible
by children playing on North Curry Street,
so the taunts begin
with cruel slurs and chalk marks
that she can not understand.

She is alone,
save six cats who need her
swirling between her shuffling feet.
They gently purr,
with a language only she understands
as the rhythm of her snapping beans
waves her paring knife in our direction.
Rocking on her porch, she smiles
at the kids who curse her.

She is misunderstood,
save my mother who protects her
when she falls coming back from her garden.
My mother covers her,
with a coat and guards her from children
who laugh as potatoes roll from her bag
pinching their noses from the scent of cat
still swarming around her
till the paramedics come.

She is carried
from the viaduct to the safety of her porch
as the story spreads through the neighborhood.
We wait by her gate,
even without dimes promised by the mailman
who believe rumors of bones in the basement,
till my mother comes out to scold us.
The Cat Lady won’t shriek in the dead of night.
It’s time for us to go home.

Inferior Exploitation of Viable Skills

B movies provide a necessary function,
a deviation from the norm,
gathering us on the couch
friends, chips, beer and bravado
all shouting obscenities
as we stuff our faces
belly laughing in agreement,
but viewer, B ware.

Plot lines twist to obscurity
in a random fashion
that is as necessary and expected
as giant alien rabbits
who devour small railways
while racing through Boston
on a mission to save the world
from white collar criminals
wearing breast popping armor.

This opportunity for upchucking
pent-up constructive criticism
is needed when we can’t complain
about the asinine policies at work
or the stupidity of leaching exes.

Just B sure
you have the stomach for it.

Pitch Perfect

The first bonfire
was probably just a cook-fire
gone terribly awry
that left the hillside
charred and black
as the fire-stokers ran
screaming at high pitch,
pointing blame
and throwing sand.

So I can’t blame you
as we heat up the night,
our arguments hot with pain
as we hurl insult upon insult,
our darkened truths
thrown into the light.

I just want to gather
every bit of what we had
and toss it to the fire.

Bring marshmallows.