I Am Found

I’ve been poetizing at the beach. There’s something about sun and sand and waves that touches the skin and makes the soul happier. The ocean has been too cold for swimming, but perfectly hot for poetry and wild dreams made of want and ink (and magnets *cough*).

This wee jar carries magnetized words
from Poe and Freud—

dark fun with psychology in it *giggles*.

I emptied the jar in my hat,
touched the words…
and let them touch me back.

The words aligned themselves into a poem bit:
“Without your storm, my strange is lost.”
I know, my sweet darlings! I thought at them.

At some point, I lost the word “lost”,
and then found it lounging with another treasure.
Birds of a feather, I tell you.

After poetizing, I leaned back, welcomed the kiss of the sun,
got drunk in Nature’s warmth,
conjured some of my favorite words to mind…
and the rest was bliss,
word-bliss waiting to be inked into poetry.

a wee note…
– To those of you who have asked about the part of New York I’m currently in, well… I’m not. I have been dancing around the San Juan Islands, kissing words right on the mouth, twirling under sun and moon, rejoicing in Nature’s treasures, delighting in the gift of being me.  When I get home, I’ll write a yummy post about the trip.

Be All Human

Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise,
Down from her beaten path she softly slips,
And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes,
Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Be verse with me,
be all human.

Be the voice that comes
to life
when sea kisses stone,
(and) thoughts of you sing to my skin
of your mouth on me.

Be my all,
when the moon swallows sunlight
and nature blooms her wildest.

Be verse with me,
be all human…

be mine (as I am yours).

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform
when the moon dances darkly in front of the sun,
poetry is… unavoidable
(also, I took some rather inspiring pictures *giggles*)

Ink and Feels

“Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges

I’ve stolen dreamed words
out of Borges’s mouth
and written us on my skin.

In the book of us,
your words are drummed to song
I dance into ink and feels;

there (in the wicked wild)
I am verse with you,
there (in flawless chaos) I
become your curiosity,
there (words are always
made of you and me)
quieted only by kisses.

Remember that kiss,
the one that lasted until you knew
the flavor of my mouth by heart?
I felt it, during a dance
of flesh and soul,
while my eyes sipped a mountain
of snow and summer and you.

I’ve stolen words
out of a book of peace and hope,
and popped them into my mouth

while the world watched
and smiled
happily, seeing me

being me… with you.

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.
the poetic images… that birthed the poem