Long the days burning… summer licks the skin golden,
hungers for that wet kiss of
sea that haunts in
refrain, it sings to the
shore, of white
horses that rush the altar
in worship
sunflower moments, melt slowly… we catch the drops of ice-cream that fall vanilla sultry to our bare parchment, chase the setting sun… her fire falls…to meet our own
we walk in autumn poetry, a lattice of flesh and thought spilling… the pulsing wind runs like fingers through hair to tease…touch… spiral henna like
we are the quickening; our voices cinnamon & cloves to the dusking hours, we taste the crisp scent of nature's garment in the biting air
our words drift as leaves… rustic in their language, sanguine in their swirling, they burn with eloquence and fall at our feet
Girl interrupted; the label carved to my insides,
a tandem reality, censured blossoming.
Sentient spirit...faded before due time,
threadbare as the hand-me-downs
I would proscribe to the depths of the closet...
if only I could.
Opaque tights did little, against
the biting voice of Winter; it relished
whipping its tongue about my flesh,
knotting my long hair, burning my cheeks,
I loved how it made me...feel.
More than a passing fascination;
this new state of being...
I wore numb well;
not enough to draw attention,
just enough to survive.
I slept with curtains drawn to the night
while the moon held my secrets between her pearly teeth
and I'd pray she'd not speak before dawn,
lest they should all fall out...
yet there was something holistic in my fractured days,
the burn of melancholy fingers that pried open my nights.
Forgive this irksome indulgence, but
this needed to be written...
to eulogize her...my girl interrupted.
knees with the earth, in
nebulous recollection
of that first dusk...in his arms.
Wistful; I am
wet with precipitation, recall the drift, of
his words, beneath the
yawn & stretch of the early bright.
Time holds me breathless
here, like a single
ember...waiting to ignite. An oneiric
call to...being,
amative in my longing to
gorge those distant words, sway in their
exquisite falling...we
danced like flame, then.
Beyond the cage of dream
I wander each satin fold that splays itself to our
ruins...a
demure blush of poetry, a
saffron dusting of thought
illicitly splashed to the
naked breath of day, I am a
grateful poet. Incense on the altar; I strike a match, let the
scented smoke...free me.
An Acrostic written from the Title of the famous poem
"I know why the caged bird sings"
by Maya Angelou
Opus of Days Death
black become the
ends of days, I
call to flesh...the moon; her soft
ambient whisper
undermines the darkness that
spills to all
edges of night
I
cannot, will not deny the
opus filtered through scrim
until I am awash in the
lilting composition of
days death
now, the wild dusk envisaged; an
opening of eye and mind...wings spread
to catch the breeze
sublime in flight, I dip and swirl
to stir the buttermilk sky
of all imaginings,
playful in my skin
feather light, free
of the haunting of memory, the
raping of spirit
dawn; the dream's
end, as first light draws from my lips
a call to flesh...the sun; the golden
touch, the kiss to curve, the
heat that sparks...my muse
Sasha '09
An Acrostic written from the title of the poem
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death" by Emily Dickinson
the poetry of rain
she is the raging summer
the hot wind
that tangles his hair
the burning kiss
that dances the upcurve
of his mouth
he is cotton candy clouds
that stretch and yawn
drifting across her
waking form
a dappled spill of morning
to her scorched skin
and we foolishly await
the poetry of rain
in the quiet discomfort
of their humidity
while we pray for sunshine
that doesn't burn
I held you safe my melancholy child
aloft, for you should feel the graceful sun
on fallow soil my feet prepared to run
to race you through the woods, pick flowers wild
crackled leaves and kindling loosely piled
our laughter bled to grey, rendered undone
remember innocence when we were one?
the shine fell from our sky; the gods beguiled
it turned our skin to grey, threadbare and old
but from the sullen earth each twisted tree
still dared to reach; invoking warmth of gold
intrinsically our heart...purple and free
remained the place we sheltered from the cold
my melancholy child; the core of me
I am a 47 year old, very proud mother of 2, living down-under, in New Zealand. Poetry is my passion, and I have been blessed to meet, get to know, and learn from some of the most amazing people, over the years. For those special connections I have made, their souls, hearts, and poetry, have touched my life in the most deep and profound ways, and I am ever grateful.
Arohanui
Art by Sasha Walker
My Poetry
My deepest thanks to ALL who left me such wonderful comments on my page, over
the past 18 months...I have really enjoyed reading them all, however, in all honesty I just don't have the time to reply to you all, anymore.
Thanks again, everybody.
Sasha xxx
Sorrow's Pearl
Calico weeps swallowing
laughter and time, as shadow creeps yet dares to cling to
breath gasping from behind cracked glass, it
seeps
shadows unfurl
the sepia rose, whose thorns anchor, then curl brazen in their
language humid in release; sweet sorrow's
pearl
once was a
dance tattooed to this floor, love throws a backward
glance... lost to a limping sun; it leans lemon
'gainst their stale romance
its echo flaunts the grey, fading
song in dulcet tones it taunts... love is jade...and
jaded teased by an ill wind sweet sorrow
haunts
I flounder, wear the grey of stalking sentinels; they tower and smirk...their stone coat-tails swallow my feet
the city will not mourn me; it pulses in my rear view... I breathe deep and chase the sun; blacktop snaking toward...life
home peels back the corporate layers; bleeds gold across my eyes, draws fire to country skin, runs fingers through limp hair. I kick off city boots, to feel dirt underfoot, drink freedom from the air
In quietude a haunting gaze evokes theweatheredcafe haze... shadow thick as syrup clung, in stolid
tincture to the air, thoughts swelled behind his jaded stare, the
journal held his words unsung
they fell from tongue like polished chrome, shone stark inside his seasoned tome. The lambent glow from candle bright; an intimation in the dark, a kindling
to call the spark... gazed long through glass; tomorrow's light
muse mistress night sleeps in the still a jagged pill, a writers plight.
Innocence captured summer days, splashed them bright, 'pon canvass, bare. Ambrosial opus; nature sways... paint brush by her favourite book, stoic easel, worn leather chair... one little girl, one cozy nook.
Within the long winters gloaming, the villa on Transition Lane echoed, called the girl to roaming... rainchild dressed in sepia veil flower in hand, 'tween pages plain, lovingly pressed, as thoughts set sail
Within the long winters gloaming innocence captured summer days