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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

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Who will love me tonight?

                        Who will love me tomorrow?

            Nobody.

            Somebody?

                        Anybody?

Will you?

            Whose hands will set me free?

                        Whose scent will mix with mine?

                                    Whose lips will eat me?

                                                Whose eyes will drink my soul?

            Somebody’s.

             But he’s a ghost – a nobody.

I give myself to ghosts.

            They love me – as I love them.

            We speak of love;

                        We share unafraid,

            We climb the ladder, labyrinths of ecstasy.

We do not fall or get entangled.

            Entwined in memories,

                        We never speak again.

            Of what?

            The whispers cling to walls in places –  dark and hidden –

                        Where you took me.

                                    I opened up to you,

                        And you were open.

            We drank each other; watched, bewildered,

            The moment…

                        When pain has eased its grip and set you free… to feel.

                        You smile and breathe.

                                    You tell me that you love me.

            I only nod.

Then all is quiet.

            No words are left.

                        No thoughts required.

            My throbbing heart  – the only memory of what has been.

 

Who will love me tonight?

            Nobody.

                        I will.

 

(c) Vica Miller

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My Salon tomorrow is poetry, so I felt it fitting to give you a sampling of mine.

Warning – it’s mostly sad.

* * *

flowers blooming, as the sun has set
….the moon is closing its eyes
i am quiet and loving and speechless

glittering smile, in half and in
quarters
conquers my face as you asked
…waiting for you – i am a
peaceful lilly…

* * *

I died today a hundred little deaths.
The hands that clasped my heart
Are cold and nervous.
The touch of death. It needs no gloves.
It cuts through my insides like knife through butter.
The ribcage shattered, pierced lungs, my heart still beating.
It bleeds maroon, the color of my lips, of monthly flow.
They sit around my bed, the sister-deaths. It’s quiet.
I’ll give them all of me, it’s their turn to claim me.
My eyes will go first, they can’t see you.
My hands will wilt and dry for yours won’t hold them.
I’ll let my mouth rot, then disappear.
You’re too far to notice.
My hair thins and falls, no shoulder left to hold it.
My legs of silk, you called them, now gone.
The sacred cave between them can’t stop bleeding.
It bleeds my love, my river that you drank.
The life itself is soaking through the sheets.
But not to worry. The bed is empty now, room is cold, there’s no light.
All forms of energy evicted.
No longer spark of two adoring smiles.
No more accords of ringing laughter.
Nothing.
All has been claimed by death
but used and left by you before that.
* * *
==========
Good Morning
Every morning I wake up next to you,
familiar curves settled against my body.
Your warm skin smells of summer fog,
and I know it won’t rain today.
You look peaceful, and your smile wakes
before you do. Because my hand brushes
through your hair, and over your shoulders.
And you know it won’t rain today.
How long have we been here, together?
Do you remember the time before we met?
It faded in the distance, like yesterday.
But I know it was raining then.
* * *
==========

 

You almost made me whole.

I am unbroken.

Undone, revived, no longer nursing wounds.

The “almost”. Which is more?

The “all”, the “most”, the lingering of doubt?

You almost made me whole.

Now set me free.

I’ll slowly walk away; my steps will leave no prints.

Your eye won’t catch my shadow

For I have none.

And maybe I will fly. You gave me wings.

Please don’t look.

I’m unbroken.

When I am whole, I’ll call your name again.

 

* * *
==========

 

Элегия

Сегодня переменная влажность. Безоблачно.
Завтра безветрие. Беззавтрие
вальяжно расположилось на
подлокотнике моих мыслей.

Вчера почернело в тумане. Погналось
за призраком смысла. Устало, но
осталось зудом напоминать
о прожитом. Ладно.

Сейчас перешло в сию минуту.
Часов не осталось для ветра.
Облачность погрустнела,
отдалась фиолетовым тучам.

Наверное мучат чувства,
призраки их заметались, замерло
постоянство, открылись дебри

сомнений. Страшно.

Дым запотевших ладоней,
холодная ясность взгляда.
Было когда-то нужно,
теперь никому не надо.

(c) Vica Miller

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