Passion Me Weird

Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.
~ Federico García Lorca

(an English translation, by moi)
Run away moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies were to come,
they would make of your heart
white necklaces and rings.

.
In his eyes, uncertainty and old hurts fight to murder want. I touch him with words, let language lick the startled curve of his lower lip, taste sun and moon in grape juice made spirits by drum and dance… And I whisper, “Passion me weird. Relax in me.”

He runs, runs, runs from me, screaming of storms and heart rings… then returns (mind-spooked but smiling), extending a cautious fingertip towards the dark that feeds my pen, adding living red to my blackest ink. He takes our story in his mouth, and his thoughts spell, What about my storm and your weird, our pandemonium?

I guide his inked finger into my heart, ask him to write himself in me… And I whisper, “Without your storm, my strange is lost. Can’t you feel it? For you, (my love of loves, is) my imagination and dreams, my unseen desires and black lace, the Me only You read.”

wet petals,
wined in fantasies
of summer

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the wee notes…
– Before I grew to love poetry, I had already fallen for Federico García Lorca’s writing. If you’ve never read Romancero gitano, La casa de Bernarda Alba, or Bodas de sangre (Gypsy Ballads, The House of Bernarda Alba, or Blood Weddings), I invite you to give them a go. You might fall, too… or, at least, stumble into a wondrous world of words.
– This poem swallowed five of my visual poem bits. See them on Instagram (here, here, here, here, here). I love crafting wholes out of pieces, writing things where they belong.
– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 368

Mussitation

She dreams a song of red-booted steps dancing on stones made of ink. Flesh is exposed, (made) believed real, but never touched—can’t feel what has never been… “But I am”, says the ghost(ly) writer… his mussitation is swallowed by the dark. She looks over her shoulder, searching for a mouth, a heart, some bloody bones… wakening to nothing.

in the night,
a hint of leather
and red, lies

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the wee notes…
Mussitation: silent movement of the lips in simulation of the movements made in audible speech; muttering; mumbling; murmuring.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Writing Unseen.

Abloom

I see you seeing me. I know you are a flourishing gift. Do you know what I am? What we could be… (for each other)? You, growing through brick walls and urban filth. Me, knowing what it is to be… (you and me). We are weirds of nature, abloom.

a wild thing—
city grown daisy,
me with you

I see you seeing me, but know not what you are… until you grow deeper in me. You see, a sprouting thing rarely shows its true face. Not before trust takes root. Not before desire grows into more. Never (not ever) before two taste what they could be, abloom.

a fresh leaf
always needs sunlight,
I want you

You see me seeing you. My fingertips reach for your extended hand. My wicked grin matches your knowing smile. We touch. We feel. We tremble. We are, abloom…

touch a bloom,
and feel his wilds spring
as you fall

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a wee note…
– While keying random thoughts on my phone, I accidentally typed “abloom”. When autocorrect didn’t show its disdain, I flew to the dictionary (I knew the word had to do with blooming, but I wanted specifics). The dictionary said abloom means “in bloom; blossoming; flowering”. I like it… a lot. Naturally, I had to feed it to a poem (or three).
– Linked to dVerse ~ Open Link Night 200