Oh let me wake, rouse you in the morn,
the sun ever golden over fields of corn,
over tolerant stones, the tree lined trail
and all the rocks the green mosses veil.

Let me rouse you now, oh sleepyhead,
if with footsteps, the scent of jam and bread,
the song of a hummingbird busy on its nest,
a kiss on the cheeks, lips lightly pressed.


1 hour ago with 42 notes



1 day ago with 705 notes
originally audreyfromla

Oh love when it came, it came a song,
and tasted as sweet as the fruits from Eden’s
bosom. But when it died, how I cried for that fire,
that blazed and raged then burned out ‘to fumes.


1 day ago with 58 notes

I fucking love gerberas. They make me so happy.


1 day ago with 17 notes

There are prominent hills and parallel ridges
running along your chest. They rise with each inhale,
staircases leading above.

Now let me climb up them, two steps at a time, with
a bag of thoughts: First, I wonder if your skinny bones
can contain all my stout, stout love.


3 days ago with 57 notes

A poet, sets himself before the table
like Chopin pounces on the keys or
a cook, keenly chops and dices his meat,

measures his salt, not a grain less nor
more. We attack our obsession with passion
or perhaps it is the other way around

as if to make an inferno from a matchstick
light. A man starves and thirsts not solely
for food and water.


4 days ago with 75 notes

You awe me, fool me, contradict me.
How you bring the best and draw the worst
in me. You are a flame in a room, mesmerizing
in yellow, with the blue hem peering.
You divulge the cobwebs I am hiding

in my corners. I would like you to spread
your light still. To be my better sun, the moon,
the stars, to be the dawn behind the scrim.
Somewhere are campers huddled ‘round a fire, their
cheeks are red and warm. You make me red and warm.


6 days ago with 77 notes

Prose is about what can be said and what is known and so on. Poetry is about what cannot be expressed. I mean, terrible grief, or intense erotic feeling, or even unspeakable anger are all inexpressible. You can’t put them in words and that’s why you try to put them in words. Because that’s all you’ve got.
W. S. Merwin, in an interview with Joel Whitney (via weissewiese)

6 days ago with 515 notes
originally guernicamag



6 days ago with 2,695 notes
originally myrandomplaylist

Stay safe my loves.


2 weeks ago with 39 notes

Even the stone, gray and aging, the young,
tender mud by the creek where children wade
with their skirts hoisted to the knees purse their
lips, cooing. Their soft voices dillydallying,
like a vagrant song in the breeze

as if in wooing. All the lifeless things fitted
inside a hearse, Venus’ cerise lips rendered
anew; the blacken, beating, vibrant as scarlet,
the weakened wight, revived. You are a jolt
of electricity through flesh, bone and sinew.


2 weeks ago with 105 notes



2 weeks ago with 149 notes
originally morpha

Crybaby

It doesn’t rain here like it rains there, no.
July and monsoon, the low-lying clouds
is an armory. Water rages rather than seep
to a stream of liquefied needles, knives,
silver against silver.

And you do not get me love when I say it,
how when it rains, there’s a sea in the skies
raring to dump its contents from inside its slit
belly, neither when I tell you the first glimpse
of a nimbus is an omen of a disaster.

It doesn’t rain here like it rains there, no.
What you know of rain is languid drops,
falling almost as if in afterthought and trickles
on glass window. And I know I’ve always cried
the hardest between us two.


2 weeks ago with 77 notes

You were New Year’s Eve, all the bright
lights and pyrotechnics and loud kaboom
erupting, interrupting the great sky,
dwarfing the soft glimmer of stars and the moon.
Farewell." The party has ended. Beer-soaked
confetti bled red, yellow over flooring and grout.
The smug smell of sulfur, burnt paper, love letters
hang now in the air. Darling, it is the day after
all the fireworks fizzled-out.


2 weeks ago with 109 notes

Catalysts & Stimulants

It rattles, like a wild boar, seized,
in captivation. You cannot hold
a tornado inside your fist.

Franz Kafka’s words resonate
in my soul. Nothing trivial will weigh,
or smash as heavy as ax over ice.

And when the frozen sea breaks open,
awaken, perhaps you can bridle the wind,
ball it inside your fist, even pull down skies.


2 weeks ago with 37 notes

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