papers/lighter/text

crumbled and rolled

Stoned Sestina 11/28/2013

Filed under: sestina — paperslightertext @ 4:05 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

A longing rose in me like smoke
The first time I caught that look
Of yours, lip bit. Slightly stoned,
I never could read faces. I turned
When I felt your eyes’ burn
Boring into my back. Was it desire?

So my mirror neurons mimicked “desire”
And I began to hanker for you, jonesing for a smoke
Like a congested chain smoker lighting up despite the burn.
I lied and told the family doctor I was looking
Into quitting you, and when you quit coming I turned
Bitter and went home alone to get stoned.

A funny thing happened when I got stoned.
It was so Zen. I forgot about your face, and the desire
That inspired poems. If this was a sonnet, the turn
Would occur here when my hopes dissipated like smoke
Negating the delicious possibilities, null upon closer look
Ash like the stash through which we’d burn

Before the ultimatum: choose which bridge to burn
Would you forego him to stay stoned?
Sacrifices must be made, I understand. Look,
It’s not my business to meddle in your desires,
But I’ve a bias- I side with sovereignty and smoke,
Some small part of me hoping you’d turn

East like a heliotrope’s turn
At dawn toward the sun’s burn.
My prophetic name, an aubade up in smoke,
A Sunday morning dawn song, stoned
Singing of curious desire
In a smoldering look

Still hopeless at interpreting that look,
I could turn
You if you desire
To satisfy the burn
Of your soul stone
With holy smoke,

Another woman turned to smoke
Stoned and burning with desire
If only it was as easy as it looks.

Advertisements
 

Regarding the Bard

Filed under: sonnet — paperslightertext @ 4:22 am

My mistress’ thighs are nothing like a pun,
Jokes are far more droll than jokes she’s said,
If wit be toil, why then her breasts are fun,
If desires be fires, fires burn in her head.

I have scrawled quatrains, couplets wry and tight,
But no such verse I seek upon her cheek,
And in some sonnets is there more delight
Than in the words my mistress deigns to speak.

I love to hear her muse, yet well I know
How educated men are thought profound,
I grant I never sought a scholar, no,
My mistress when she talks does not talk down.

And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as bright
As any soul that’s lit by inner light.

 

Salinity 11/10/2013

Filed under: free verse,poetry — paperslightertext @ 2:01 pm

If we embody the places we’re from,
Are there oceans of blood
in a shell held to your ear?
What if it was obvious,
That epiphany that Earth
Is seventy percent sea and so are we?
Filled with myriad creatures
known or yet undiscovered
Sacks of saline, sediments and sentiment,
Funneled by currents, by gestures in gyres,
Spring and neap tides,
The bulging seas fleeing gravity
enamored and repulsed
by the luminous moon.

If we embody the places we’re from,
If I’m landlocked, are you the coast?