Sweet and Dark Pleasures Should Be Shared

Most flowers save their delights for Spring. Not my Montauk daisy. She enjoys blooming for Autumn. Either that, or she prefers to flourish whenever Nature’s skirts go from greens to golds to crimsons… towards the arms of Winter’s dark.

Last week, I wrote about screams that meant nothing and of lovers who know ink. There was pleasure and chocolate and poetry… on Instagram (I brought it here, in case you missed it—sweet and dark pleasures should be shared with all). 😉

Pleasure is dark
chocolate
and you,
whispering poetry
on my spine.

Speaking of sharing and of sweetness and of friends with spines…

Emma, mistress of Groovy Gothic, sent me a raven, a hammer, a blade, some dark words a red death. Yep, I’ve been grinning like the happiest of maniacs.

Stacy, from Magic Love Crow, blessed me with a murder of crows to stick with… I’ve stared at them for days, trying to figure out what surface deserves this beauty.

Then, when I thought my grin couldn’t get any bigger, Ms Misantropia presented me with a silver hammer that proved me completely wrong. My grin has grown to nearly violent proportions.

Emma, Stacy, and Katarina, you rocketh my October very mucho *wild giggles*. Thank you so much. I’ll treasure your gifts… always.

I’ve been doing wild things with words in them. What have you been up to?

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

.
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

Of Pigeons and Perverts and Other Complexities

Most of you know of my love—I’m-going-to-pull-every-single-one-of-your-freaking-feathers-you-thieving-bastard relationship with certain blue jay. Well, I guess, this is truer for those of you who follow me on Facebook, where I do much of my ranting.

My blue jay fiend hasn’t been around lately. I’m sort of worried about him. I wonder if he has been finally put in his place by a mad pigeon who has already claimed some of his head feathers. To think of it, the pigeon has also been MIA. The bees, too…

I wouldn’t mind it too much, if the blue jay finds another urban garden to terrorize. But I would miss the cooing of the pigeons. And if they leave, I would miss out on some gifts—the bloom below was dropped into one of my pots by one of them.

Lately, I’ve had issues with certain people (a few men and a couple of women) who felt it necessary to share some of their rather inappropriate and somewhat disgusting romantic feelings towards me, which they say were inspired by my words. Since none can control how art affects others, I’ve done my best to ignore these things. Some of the reactions are quite humorous (goodness knows Emma has a blast comforting me).

But the more disturbing ones were starting to get to me. So much so, that I almost considered rethinking some of the topics that feed my poetry and prose… Then, an Instagram friend said, “Your words have been getting me through a TOUGH week, lady. My grandma passed away last week and my family on that side can be cold. It’s been tough but your words and posts have really helped THANK YOU.”

I know grief. I’ve felt it crack my rib cage open, leaving my heart exposed. Hearing that I’ve helped soothe some of that pain for another, convinced me not to change a thing about the writing I post online. For I, who has kissed loss on the mouth, have also danced with hope… and hope is a delightful thing to spread, to feed into poems.
from “Loving You through the Veil

The bean, which I accidently on purpose planted in my Montauk daisy pot, is about to offer a harvest. Go on, laugh. You are allowed. I giggle wildly every time I look at the pods… mostly because I completely plan to cook the three beans growing in it.

One of my friends and I have been discussing the nature of relationships—that wild dance of give and take, which would never work if those involved don’t respect and understand each other’s wants and needs. Remnants of those conversations were in my mind, while I crafted the blackout below. I believe in those words. When passion is mixed with thinking and loving and compromise, the horrors that tend to destroy relationships become conquered monsters to laugh at, topics of which to say, “Look at what we can do together, baby. Let’s do more.”

the heights of passion
will destroy ego, Honey.
there’s nothing sexier.

The gift from the pigeon (or from some other bird) has just bloomed. I used to think that it was a sunflower. But it’s very tiny (the size of a silver dollar) so I’m no longer sure. But it doesn’t matter much… You see, my Wicked Luvs, I believe that when it comes to feathered thieves and to art and to relationships and to life’s little (and big) surprises, the nature of the thing isn’t as important as what the thing makes us feel.

I’m feeling good, good, great…

…and you?