Your sleepy green eyes
Make me want to see
Your drunken smile
Begets a thought in me
To conjure a life force
To bring to thee
Kisses on your moon face
Gleaming blissful glee.
Your smells of a warm winter,
a warm embrace and an icy kiss.
I love your winter flavours on my lips ––
taste of summers I do not miss.
Your cinnamon, musk smells
waft through my lungs and heart.
You say we can’t be lovers,
we are from two worlds apart.
The winter comes and goes,
sometimes lovers do return.
But, on the diaphanous wings of a moth
I place my love, for it to burn.
Because there is pure love after selfish love,
an ambrosial potion, sweetest.
And generous, golden sunshine
after tumultuous tempest.
And so I love you, Simon Cuddlebug,
just like a child does her favorite friend.
There is only a love filled warm heart,
nothing feels broken – no more a need to mend.
And because each story needs a complete end…
On quiet nights we chase shadows,
watch a distant star.
Hold hands like children in love
while I fall in love with your eyebrow scar.
Sometimes that is all you want to do,
rise above the city of melancholy
and watch the yellowing leaves fall.
Trace shadows of foliage in neon light
and watch our shadows grow tall.
Plant sweet kisses to dull traces of regret
of having loved in spite of it all.
In the branches of despair
Kites of damning thoughts get stuck
And so carefully in your
Chest pockets you must tuck
Fortitude a bird blue
Of all weathers
And find simple joy
In its iridescent feathers.
the poet goes
A lump in the throat
and aching toes.
But she gets given
a kiss on the nose –
(sugary treat for aching heart )
for her silken prose.
How does this sadness
even dwell in a heart so warm
Melancholy be its blood’s colour red?
Tell me Ieda
is there sadness too
in your ferruginous lunules?
But you will just fly away
into this floating dusk
Leaving me with my melancholy rouge.
(Photo: Melanitis leda or Common Evening Brown)
A creature of love
knows not how to live without love.
Don’t tell her love is some
post-modern Victorian myth!
For on her heart
perhaps a burden too heavy
Alone it cannot bear
it migrates through her body.
There are painkillers for lovers
and mellow songs for loners, thankfully.