Late Spring Evening

Moonlight catches a cobweb
in the orbs of your eyes.

Wistful memories lurk
on intersections.

Someone else’s thoughts
waft between the clouds.

Cats sigh as delicious dark
oozes through screen doors.

The sound of counterfeit rain,
the hose makes streetlight rainbows.

Grass blades tickle toe whorls
as they spring up after each step.

The concrete footpath is cool
and smooth beneath the soles.

A tree rustles, a paw, a nose,
a possum munches guava flowers.

A young woman gets in her car
complaining on her mobile phone.

A moment later, she squeals the tires,
on the wires above, a possum crosses.

The moon has risen high
above the roofs, glinting on the tiles.

OpenLinkNight — Week 72

Advertisements

Glass Houses

Glass Houses by Mobius Faith

It remains with dreams
of luscious greens
in a far off place,
not in this space or time;
open the door,
listen to the squeak
of metal sticking
a slight adjustment
and its old bones
slide – cr cr cr cr creak.

Warm moist air
billows through your body,
the scent of a laundry
slides up nostrils
bringing a pigeon coo
of a memory,
gone before it’s caught…

Slide the door
shut behind you,
keep the warmth
contained within
against the bleak
no man’s land outside.

Spanish moss
eases your creased forehead,
orchids dance like
butterflies,
in a corner
fragrant pods
ooze the scent of vanilla,
snap one off,
sneak it in your pocket;
remember when
you stood upon chair
to reach the kitchen table
scrapping precious
fragrant black paste
with a blunted knife
and then the churning of
the cream, breaking eggs
to collect the suns inside,
and the black paste
made speckles
in golden ice-cream
one endless summer’s day.

Two tears form
in the corners of each eye
and race to drip
off your chin,
you blow your nose and shrug,
you turn to leave,
the door’s creaks
recite an ode
to the vanilla pod
nestled safe
inside a roomy pocket.

A desolate glare outside,
you quint as the cold air
shakes your scalp;
again you blow your nose,
a defiant trumpet call,
you walk past broken bottles,
grey clay sticking to your shoes,
the ridges of the pod
feel warm as your finger tips
recollect tracing grandma’s wrinkles.

 

Poetics– photography by Terry S. Amstutz

Befunky

More of SueAnn’s wonderful art can be seen here

Shadows gather,
streets lights play the blues,
a couple sits in silence,
she twirls a swizzle stick,
he flicks his fringe,
an impatient stallion
hides behind his deadpan eyes.

Across the way, he watches
as lights go on and
blinds are drawn,
one window stays open
to the eyes of the night,
“someone will cry tonight,”
he thinks…

He lights a candle,
and puts on music,
something smooth
to quell his racing pulse,
“ack hem, I’ll put the
camera on a tripod,
with zoom, we’ll catch
it all, once they enter,
we shall strike.”

She calls room service,
they’ll need sustenance
on this long night,
her knives are ready,
“tonight, someone will die,”
she thinks.

They lock their brittle eyes.

Poetics: Through the Artist’s Lens