themapper

it hurts, it hurts where the dark outside will the winds never stop blowing it hurts it hurts my skin too hot thoughts like big black birds nerves rubbed raw with salt it hurts it hurts my ears too loud big ugly rude sounds traffic like big black hearses it hurts.

Bloom quiets in ice A final petal droops, drops Frost's discreet cover

Blasted, icy plains Soul riding endless on wind Futile leaves blow by Silvered moon on branch Long decline across my sky Chill enters my soul Grey, grey, skies are dim Grieve, grieve, summer's warmth is gone Grim, grim, night surrounds Mournful raven sings Slurried snow anoints my head Death of a season

Life's moments tick-tock, Seed to bloom and seed again. Timeless seeds to live.

Moonlight on hot skin: Elusive lover's passion. I watch in shadow.

This morning, early rain so sweetly kissed my face, while all around me spicy leaves commenced to fall. The shifting air is bliss: a twirling cirque soleil that sharply weaves and flips. I long to join that acrobat who wheels and beckons me from far above: the autumn's fading stories landing flat upon my head as if to offer love; a spinning, wheeling, circling of scent and sight and flight that flings my rusty caw aloft on winds of amorous intent; I spread my shaky, tattered wings in awe; then quaking, shivering, turning in delight, I join my lover's early morning flight.

Pub Goddesses Scent of a sweet, warm woman forever mingled with tomato tang deepened by garlic, broadened by rosemary sharpened by thyme. Professional charm, leavened by that amused twinkle, that ironic eye that says, Yes old man, I see your wintry libido: ashy sparks in a spent fire. Tip me well and I'll stand a bit closer. Immaculate limbs, heated back, taut belly. Untouchable. At least by one as old as me. Vestal virgins march by, each bearing sacred feast, sacred wines. Or just as often, sacred silverware, destined to grace a fresh washed alter, clean as an empty pew waiting for new worshippers. Cup-bearers, pub goddesses

She hides amongst the leaves of burnished gold, her shivered word aloft on icy breeze: a riddle made of astral filigrees, trailed by dreams enwrapped in copper cold. She wanders lost in memories of light, remembering the wild abandonment of dances coarse: lubricious sacrament to summer's lovers lost to frosty night. She stops and stands, her softly spoken sighs emitting warmth enough to start the smoke of fires first fanned by sylvan pagan folk. She stops. She stands. A flickering in her eyes. An ancient bonefire sputters where she stood: the lady of the golden autumn wood.

A gentle petal on my skin, her kiss drew out of me a shaky, wondering sigh as lover-mine plucked roses from on high, and blood-red lips bestowed their heated bliss. Bent over me with fragrant skin and hair, all tousled from our recent warm embrace, she draws a finger 'cross my lips and face. The sunlight glistens on her body bare. Then all too soon, the day gives way to night; too soon the petals fall and lose their blush; it's gone, all gone; it's vanished in a rush. And thorns remain, all cold and hard and bright. Then, lost in shadows dark with cold and rime, a final petal falls, entrapped in time.