My Scarlet Remains

December 30, 2020

And through it all, seasons famished or full, my dear Scarlet, you remain.
Sprightly and apparent
always your heart cut and pushed forward.
From window view, it hung bent below your left breast
just right of your thoughts.
Like sweetened licorice its flavor speaks unspoilt,
like restorative puree with a belly warming taste;
You exist to remind me to hemorrhage openly, never to waste.

Your skin, bright as blossomed truth and soaked in the
hue of amorous wine.
You fly amongst a quartet of colors
while clearing a contemplative space for creation to take place.

Playful yet quaint,
Isolated through gossamer clouds, Scarlet sips most from the moment,
As near to the sun past flesh permits.
I watch you and want to drinking from the vein of your thoughts.

Born from dribbled embers
You pull from the blood of the earth
You drink romanced tears while cloaked in heat;
Time, you do not twaddle with as though deaths door is nigh.
In you Scarlet, there are no remains, only, everything
and nothing is left unturned to ask why.

Through Scarlet birds I am reminded of all that is life;
electric love wailing about in windy theatrics,
perpetually pouring itself into inhaling ventricles,
dying for the filling.

By: Magnolia Lafleur

THINE EYES!

October 14, 2020

Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.

Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.

Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from

the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,

moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.

And oh the things it bares witness to;

Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.

Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.

How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.

And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss;  one third of our lives.

What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?

For it is they that wrote this, not I.

Eyes of white,

Eyes of gold,

Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.

These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,

Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.

Safeguarded at all times.

But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,

They remain open,

fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;

 They do not sleep.

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Invisible Maestro

October 8, 2020

It pecked upon the twigs sloshed inside a pond of warm blooded mud just between a briars patch.

Through the rose window and beyond the rumpled Victorian curtain, my eyes were fixed;

Upon this bird, adorned in a black feather coat and emerald eyes, was calm tranquility, as it slowly tugged, no, merely kissed the twig, in hopes of resurrecting  it from the dampness of yesterday’s rain.

And nearby a tree guarded this Rusty Blackbird from rays of light and the wind, from slight of sound.

Transfixed I was in the facile movement of nature, symphonically conducted by an invisible maestro.

Finally, after minutes of bearing witness to this dance, I saw the mud birth not one, but a string of twigs bound to each other, like the pearls upon my mother’s neck.

Delighted, or seemingly so, the blackbird dragged, collected and flew away;

And as I stood, weighted in a lachrymose farewell, a preponderance of thoughts pecked at the pool of mud gathered in a frozen place inside my heart.

Only, where was my maestro and does he know my name?

So I sat and took to ink and paper my plight.

And while heavy in eyes, I wrote this, blotted in the vanity of self-pity and below the breast, where forlorn feelings often linger without a tree to shade or wind to silence;

In hopes that I too, will be like the Rusty Blackbird, drenched in pined watchfulness from a distant window, with a pile of twigs at my leisure, in perfect time, as I too, will  collect and fly away, leaving it all behind.

The Wilderness

October 8, 2020

Wild?
It is but civil.

Scattered trees whose nails are painted in rose buds and thorns
Waving inside the lofty breath of rushed and waited wind.
Quiet, its weathered lids, canopies above
your quick-flirting eyes.


And you,
You cannot woo it, even should you try.


For it is the wild that drowns unmerciful structures.
It doe not speak through electrical wires and erect thumbs;
Nor does deal in self-devouring gold.
Crowned in the mirth of a quintessential performance,
It’s self-invigorated

As the rivers do not mind you, or me.
Above we see mere clutter, but below,
Below its all one grand parade.
Organized, processions of  apple roots, warm clay and leaves, as emerald as eyes,
journeying to drink beneath sun-bathing water lilies.
This rivers skin, reflective and teary eyed, like bottled wine drunk on light,
it absorbs EVERYTHING.

And this,
THIS is my wilderness!

Mad, its barks reveals its pouting veins buried beneath wrinkled moss.
Its ceremonial quirks, and exiled sounds,
They twirl and turn and take me.
Somehow transforming corrosive syllables into brilliant, soundless, swishing waves.

Here, one has not a choice but to listen & behave.

Fools & Kings

August 19, 2013

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By: Magnolia

Their love was the cause of levitation and crying leaves.

Upon first sight, he beheld blue dust; speckled inside the iris of her reflective mirror,

They lingered, spellbound & bogart.

While gold and pink light, soft and incandescent, spied between the fissures of his fluttered heart.

Their interlocking dewy eyes, congealed in-time.

The musings of tomorrow and yesterday, evaporated outside the bloom of detangled vines.

And with the zest of a king and the heart of a fool;

Mouths unraveled so rapturously, that as they stood,

From form to dust and water to a paphian musk,

They became every form of life, rising and sinking, from dawn to dusk.

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They lingered, spellbound & bogart.

Their love was the cause of levitation and crying leaves

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The musings of tomorrow and yesterday, evaporated outside the bloom of detangled vines.

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Upon first sight, he beheld blue dust; speckled inside the iris of her reflective mirror

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Their interlocking eyes, congealed in-time

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c1b17 Brilliant Levitation Photography

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From form to dust and water to a paphian musk

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And with the zest of a king and the heart of a fool

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While gold and pink light, soft and incandescent, spied between the fissures of his fluttered heart

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Mouths unraveled so rapturously, that as they stood

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They became every form of life, rising and sinking, from dawn to dusk.

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Shut Eyes Kept Breath

July 5, 2013

That’s where she existed best.

In the dark, in the light, high upon the rafters,

Perched above the clamor of civilization.

Where fog embraces light in the form of bulbous clouds.

Where the pangs of sorrow are dulled by the atmospheric civility that only floating can offer.

Where tears find home in rain,

Calmness in the breath of nothing,

and stillness in the charm of fluttered roses.

And just the mere possibility of all this, that desire to break free from skin,

It cruised beneath her heart and pushed against limp veins.

Like leather tightly wound against screaming bones,

She felt the itch of wanting to escape;

To melt past rattling walls and bursting bubbles.

But only with shut eyes and kept breath could she find the courage to leap.

And spinning in the solitary moment of her first step was truth flashing upon somber lids.

It was in the rain,

It was in the wind,

It was in the beat of the sun

and in every crater of the moon.

She was interwoven in the bliss of this deserted place.

Every night bathing in the light of the stars

And every morning dancing with a flock of wings.

In her despair she had surrendered to the dream and found triumph in the crux of her soul.

Pirouetted in the divinity of absolute mirth, alas she was home.

This poem is getting published in the Oxford Poetry Society Magazine, Ash in London.

 

Between the Gap

By:Magnolia

It’s that small whisper in-between the fog.

Wounds hushed by plush snow,

and woeful hearts melted through tepid strokes.

Light, right before the fade of dark.

Or fire seduced by adjacent streams.

It’s that closing of the gap as I near you.

Can you feel it?

The swaying hairs reaching from my arm.

Can you see it?

My swollen iris, lids double fluttering.

Or can you hear the wings of butterflies

pounding against captured air.

Long, rolling, syllables,

thinly spread upon a bed of silence;

begging to fill the space where you begin and I end.

And why is that as far as I’m allowed to get,

beside the respite of breath billowing between our lips?

I want to subsist inside the gap.

The difference of the two?

  A slight of hand,

a slit between being alive and merely breathing.

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form–no object of the world.
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space–ample the fields of Nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold–the embers left from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring’s invisible law returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.

*Picture This*

January 17, 2011

Listen -Look – Relax

 

 Dreaming    By: Peter Przybille 

Alaskan Husky Tex dreaming in the landscape of Northern Norway

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sunbeam
By:EricBuilt in England in the 1860

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

Andy Glass

      

                                              Santorini, Greece – By Jim Nilsen        

  

Falltuer

 

Falling Up- By: Nikki Jane  

 

The Endpoint
By Jeannette Oerlemans

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Song of Tide
By Wira Nurmansyah

Indonesia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ink Sea
By Hermin Abramovitch

 

Fan’s Eye
A macro shot by LauHi

 

Ant, The Driver
By Raphael Guarino

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Purple Leaf
By Juliet Heins- National Geographic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alin Ciortea

 

 

Sky -By Venkane

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here Floats a Bubble in the Air  –  By D_oracle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Autumn in Red 

 

By Shazeen Samad

 

 

Bird and Water

 

  

By  R.See 

  

 Eye

 

 

 Path

 

Two Legs – By Peter Grant