One

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #119, Artistic Photography Dreamlike Portrait Photography by Damien Casals:

**
You and I
are becoming one,
our unspoken words
a voice, mellow
in its timbre,
its echo light
like a soft hand
yet firm, kneading out
the noise from
the silence that we share.
In that silence
of being and being present,
of returning and reforming,
of holding out against
the pressure of the world,
are broken things
becoming whole again,
each breath a small victory
won by persistence,
a fresh shoot
pushing its way
through the things
that rage has razed.

Breathe

For The Sunday Muse prompt #117:

**
Breathe,
in spite of beauty,
in spite of the frailty
of the blue orb floating free
beneath your feet,
stunning you.

Breathe,
because of beauty
because the earth hugs you
like a mother tethers
her unborn child
fragile in its parts
guiding, calling, growing
feeding.

Breathe,
because home centres you
because wherever you are
times and seasons are locked
in an eternal dance

Breathe,
because.

Disappearing


For The Sunday Muse Prompt #116. Image “Seeing Black & White” photography by  Susie Clevenger

**
Yesterday’s ghouls
are slowly disappearing,
fading like the night light
once bright but now dappled,
wisps of grey carried away
in our slipstream,
lingering like the dust
a knight’s steed leaves
in the frenzy of flight.

But the promise is a mirage,
objects in a mirror
are closer than they appear
and though we run
as though the wind bears us,
yesterday’s shadow lurks
in the space between
the things we leave
and the things that
disappear

Where I Am

For the Poetic Asides prompt 530 Where You Are, Photo by Reiseuhu on Unsplash

**
Here the sun
hangs like a weight
its heat like a curtain,
dense, wrapped around itself
like thick clouds
keeping out the light.

Dust clouds swirl
around hardy rocks,
each peak a monument
to defiance, to aeons
of resistance,
to heads held high against
the ravages of earth,
sand and time.

For a season this,
this barren space
which survives
against the odds
is home, reluctant
as it may be

How To Taste Wine

For The Sunday Muse prompt #115:

**
Let the first sniff 
hit you, let the faint
hint of the juice pressed
and aged be like incense
wafting up, a prayer
to Dionysius for a blessing
on this rich red liquid,
chilled, swirled and sipped.

Let the low heat
linger, let its essence
slowly spread, warming
the insides of your mouth
let its heft spread
like a warm embrace
across your tongue.
Let it rise
Let it rise.

Silence, For C…

For C, and the others 2020 has taken. A response to the Poetic Asides prompt, Pandemic. Photo by Marina Reich on Unsplash
**
Where the patter
of your footsteps
once roamed
silence reigns,
the joy of breath
and thought
and sonorous song
subsumed by the
frailty of things.

Death lingered
at your door, too long
and then snatched you.
In the silence that you leave
we remember the things
we planned tomorrow.

A Prayer for Lost Loves

For The Sunday Muse prompt #114:

***
May the pains
of today’s desires
lose themselves in
the fragrance of
a love reborn,
the pained passion of
unrequited love find itself
returned in time
like a blossom that speaks,
a sacred whisper to the soul
colouring everything in
the light of a rose,
beautiful in its bleeding
yet whole, because the Lover
and the Loved like thorn and rose
find themselves entwined,
from past pain and tortured paths,
delirious joy arising.

Summertime, for G

For The Sunday Muse prompt #113:
***
The light in her eyes
mirrors the mirth,
in the wry smile
that still, some days,
wraps itself
around her lips,
a bird, free,
born of the wild
borne by the wind.

The heavy scent of summer,
of flowers blooming and
of squirrels flitting
between the trees,
reaches down into
the depth of the memories
she bears within, the
delight of summers past
simmering, then bubbling
to the fore though
her fingers can no longer
coax life from the dry earth
or press pleasure
into a cone.

Ignition…


For the Sunday Muse prompt # 112:
***
Sometimes I carry
the weight of the world
upon my head, its heft
held between the twin peaks
of forgotten and accepted things,
a history curated not
by those who waver
at the threat of war
but those who embrace
its vagaries, who daily
pour out a libation
to destruction.

What seems like
the stillness of a boat
in quiet waters only hides
the furious paddling
of a mind being torn apart
as it wrestles with the tension
between conforming and desire.

This is how one keeps
dismay at bay, until
someday in a moment,
unexpected in its coming
and ferocity, it ignites.