Chthonian Skin

If I could touch you now,

I’d touch your face,

find your cheek

pressed into a plum

when you smile

so softly.

The scent

the soft brush

the round curves

the raised coat

of your skin.

My skin crawls,

seeking touch.

To turn it off is futile.

Never turning the key - IS the key.

Mindfulness in the moment -Is the lock.

So lock it.

How can a hunger start so softly,

and reach so deeply,

through the surface of a well?

Foreign and unformed:

hidden

in chthonian skin.



But feeding or fasting,

will it abate,

negate

or satiate?


To live with crawling skin,

a hungry well,

takes an open heart:

Touch my heart, to quiet my head,

perhaps then I can think myself fed,

and lay my skin to rest

upon the memory of your chest.



.(Chthonic: of or relating to the underworld in pre-Apollonian religion, from earth-based religions.)

why write?

To bring darkness to light

and put to rest the night

to focus youth's might

to make beauty bright

to bring form to sight


to set a wrong right

to charge a fight



to propel flight

to seek a height

to burn a blight

to open insight

(Missing my Muse, I had to turn off the angry tapes running in my head.  One way I do this is to explore the wilderness.  How do you find your muse?)

Anger is only...

a momentum you feel

on the last straight spoke

of a broken wheel.

a tool to dispel

the rain hitting level

under the umbrella.



a pill to make you ill

when hard feelings

can’t get their fill.

an interim storm

of desert grit

to keep words warm.

an instant switch

to start a charge

with a hurl of spit.

a shocking drug

you shouldn’t share

off the chopping block.

How do you deal with anger?  What makes you incessantly angry?  hmmmmm.........I could go on and on and on, why don't you?

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

One foot in front of the other....     standing on rocky ground all we can do is move forward one step at a time.

Spring weather has hit central California!  Time to enjoy it, today!

Photo: H.G.Giese

Flash 55 Friday

Five O’clock P.M. Release

Submerged in the quiet

of the humming fans,

the impatient clocks,

the papered dins,



Let go of edicts,

unclutched handles,

passing breaths,

unloosed grins.

The pulse buffets

as the mind expands.

Embodiment molts.

The view spins.

Cued by the respite

from hands and sands,

swaddle the soul

to refill it again.



Drug free,(except for carafes of coffee), and alcohol free, a queer let-down occurs at the end of the day.  Triggered by hypoglycemia, fatigue, solitude from a very public job, or rare isolation, the feeling is heady and disorienting at the same time.  (nursing mothers, think of the "let down" sensation)  I decided to stop fighting it and honor it with a sigh, a nap, a tear, and a poem.
This is a poem in exactly 55 words.  If you write flash-fiction or poetry in 55 words, post on Friday and let your flasher with the fastest 55's know, Mr. Knowitall, HERE



Wordless Weds. = Tuesday toes in Calif?

see prior post about alienation in Spring.....

Lost Spring

Strewn

sprouts

in loam

of tiny green

mounds…

Sheets

of linen

hung in clouds…

Shrouds

of light

beyond

near sight...

Recall a lust

held in trust.

Winter lingers, a liar

to a Spring of

Saint Elmo’s fire.



I have a sense of alienation this Spring, as though nothing will ever be the same.  Winter is lingering much longer than usual in central California, with rainstorms reminiscent of the Pacific northwest. This shot was from our usually barren front acre, during a freak hailstorm last month.  It was followed by an even rarer snowstorm the following week, tricking the flowers and trees to retreat into dormancy even longer.