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LOVER’S BAD POTTERY
Straw breaks, splits with the sun
The Insects stick like limpets; waiting
The heat falls, heavy on the shoulders
the arched backs pass; I dream
Not long, I’ll escape from this
Monotonous abyss; keys jingle
The sun sets; the locks are undone;
the buttons pop, the music rocks
Instant rain, large loving lady lips
Compose the cosmos nocturne
You paint, you paint me well
When you, paint, the cracks close
Shapely, ice cream quiver
the streams entwine to form the river
pallet quenched, I’ve got that feeling
Those rivers always run wild
A pause for fuel, then off again
Hearts pumping, tapestries brightened
All senses heightened, by the sweat,
Such sweat, and saliva, my lady godiva
Such beautifully molded clay
Smooth as meadow, with fresh blossom aroma
Is this twaddle? Or gods all?
The clock races to dawn, and then
It breaks, I slither in daylight
Outside the nocturne cosmos
Oh, I should know better, but you paint,
you paint me well, when you paint
Bad Pottery, always longs for rain
it hides the brittle cracks, that run deep
Chris (chrisg22)
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THE HERON
You fly alone,
singular sentry,
streak of pewter flight,
arrow shot from nature’s hand.
Today you reflect,
neck pulled into itself,
wings tucked into scissors,
perched on time-soaked timbers.
Like a reed-thin pharaoh,
bow drawn, string taut,
eyes scan emerald waters
where golden fins weave and dart.
I startle you,
covet your wingspan,
mantle stretched wide,
spread solemnly—soaring silently.
I scribble my blood
into this womb of pages,
as you cause me to ponder,
seek beauty in the question why
you fly alone.
D. Ouellet
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one basic element
find words that taste of salt,
pass them to me in comfort,
toss them over your shoulder
sighing granules of white
barter with them with me
in the desert, in the heat
of passion they are desire
life impossible without them
a small taste at baptism, marriage
sealed, Lot’s wife purified
with a single salty glance
Judas spilled at supper,
left hung suspended with guilt
a luxury they have become between us
dissolved, they remain free,
floating, reconnecting to reform
themselves in afterlife, they are what
remains traceable to our existence
blood of my blood, a portable commodity
sometimes, you don’t feel
my salt as it spins nervous circles
so simple,
so plentiful
shaking salvation
with their taste
Tim J. Brennan (68degrees)
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