The Wanting

Marina Shemesh

The Wanting

down cobbled stones she hears her own wanting-heart

thumping hobbles dragging dread uncanny closer until 

transformed - pantingly vulnerable as any empty-head

heroine smothers all - she simply waits breathlessly for

some swart heroic swoop to rip the disguise from her
pallid poem and fill her world with rounded vowels. 

Smudged

imaginary garden with real toads

Artist in his Studio by Rembrandt

Smudged 

There is an ache born of longing

written in soft charcoal smudges

The yearn for all that once was and

will never be again - the inexorable

pull toward a future flowing with

fresh unfamiliar faces -vanquished

dreams –this oncoming smudge of

mumuration rising born of all that

was and all that is certainly to come

whirling – into agony stunning even

the most steadfast hopeful soul into

wide-eyed, mouth gaping, stillness –

stillness as the final smudge of that

single infinitesimal fleck of charcoal

erases – this is knowledge, known,

denied, this life lived in the spaces

between  

avmapping.blogspot.com/2011/11/video-murmuration-of-starlings-...

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Warmups.... #1  & #2

#1 (my father was a Rembrandt loving oil painter - who I adored)

She pulled from his peg on the door

His shirt, a tunic, a sash and finally

on tiptoe knocked the black hat

to the floor – on bare feet she

rushed down the stone corridor

out the gate through the red

dust and into the empty studio

She dressed before she turned

paint brush in hand willing her-

Self to become Him for just one

single moment and see the world

as he did stilled long enough to

transport into colored oils….

#2 

In the stillness of long shadows

In the stillness of long shadows

falling softly we stare into the

Quiet - eyes wide and wondering

Where we are and what awaits

in the stillness of long shadows

falling softly

in the incomparable sweetness

Cynthia Cole Davis

in the incomparable sweetness 

they tiptoe together -  
bare toes squishing fresh-dropped dung

watching out for 'grownup-enters' creaks

reach for small fistfuls from the burlap bag

and run - run into and over the dawn lit field

wet grass - through corn - jumping mole holes - 

run to the cool edge of the woods and there bury 
their purloined seeds pressing into the untilled earth

with fingers tremulous stoked by stolid solid certainty - 
knowing that before long a vine will sprout another and 
on-until time tumbles - they are ready - and their wine flows –

Now, they lay together tasting the future on their lips - watching 
clouds as the new rise-sun spills- 
chewing on a pilfered stalk – 
farming - 
soy beans into grapes 

until the call to breakfast 

Midnight Mourning

MALIZ ONG

Midnight  Mourning 

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight

the motor of my mind a whir - thoughts popping

from hidden chambers as magician’s rabbits to die
immediately - nothing can live in this airless dark  -

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight -

memories joining into Golems-marching mutants

clomping down the corridors of raw recollection

To say you are missed – is to compare a pin-light

to the convocation of all flung stars in the galaxy –

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight

as the fleshed reminder of what was you lay cold

in an actual mortuary –I know. I watched the gurney 

slide into the mouth – myself – metal on metal - 

watched as the van with a phone numbered logo

 made a U-turn and pulled down our driveway 

our driveway where you came home to me – always. 

Yet, even this thought that I prod more or less 

like a rotten tooth falls dead as a soaked autumn leaf – 

thoughts piling into moldering heaps of sodden stench.

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight –

Methinks that this is but the first night of such walks.

I have now joined the matriarchs – alone and strong

for you – Shoulders straight and eyes and mind clear

during the light – but at night – at midnight my darling

I shall wander the mortuary of my mind – searching for

my stolen soul and wake to the sound of our mariachi 
men strumming softly over a vanished horizon 

The Matriarchs’ Tale

Ave Lainesaar

The Matriarchs’ Tale

(a lil bit of sunday fun inspired by Wordling words) 

from the mouths of matriarchs comes the tale

on many a mutuant midnight to warn and regale

the tale of Meth who danced through the night

calling blazing mariachis in hip jutting motor-might

Meth who smiled with teeth so gleaming winter bright

magician, sorceress, not one soul missed

but for one small boy and one small girl all were kissed

only these two no less no maybe more

curled into one another goes the lore

from the mouths of matriarchs goes the tale to spin

that it was only these two innocents left to begin

to begin a dance of love with clear eyes and soul

untouched from the blazing burn of Meth’s black hole

until one midnight as mariachis played

Meth called and a now grown man and woman stayed

Stood strong and firm as about them townspeople bayed

From the mouths of matriarchs comes this tale

of the hold of Meth and the two that did not fall and fail.

And as, the band played on wild and whirling fast

Others drew to the two that seemed to - in love last

That did not fall in gasping breath and grasping lust

More and more turned as Meth burned out to dust

Now the mariachis call only laughter to each soul

All freed from the black bottomed gawping hole