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Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Diana Rising

soft sounds buckle
under the shadow of honeysuckle, and
      cherry leaves and orange pip
kernals of low glowing
loganberry reds to light up
every corner of the room;

open is the breath, the vagi naked, a
      nocturnal need of daily

minutiae to
yield to the sacred

bruised stars with dark tear ducts for hearts
      in a dance with a crying moon
gliding in hot rain; reflective senses

filling the skin of air; where desire is an
ancient rhetorician choosing
the words to determine the music,

holding its meaning in a shivering exit,
a tightening, stretching syllable, as
      in a stirring string on a lute touching
raw nerves characterising
yearning in a foreign cord

      achingly playing; thoughts surfing
roused in veins scented of rose and jasmine
and the flooding water
by a particular human throat

      caught on a particular
occasion in a song
carrying a glint of silver
kissing time on the run;

as Diana rises with milken
silk head resounding

intimate in every shifting ground of

light and dark tattooed on thumb grooved
indigo, musk and skin
      culminating in the hunt;
kicking up its hooves

over the grass terrain,
under bush of fire
to the river within; where nymphs know

yesterday flows
one with today
reaching out to

juilet waiting for romeo
under the moon's intricate
intimate lace of light,
catching the soul as a
yawning sigh in

greeting to reluctant sleep,
refusing to dream
      even under the honeysuckle
essence of shade and cherry
kernels of heat,

pulsing in vein of heart and hand;
understanding the sincere
soliloquy of a final wish of
      sound to seal the door to
yesterday's green land.

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