Nest

image

No stepping

on nests

while waltzing shadows

between leaves

of green trees

in sunshine.

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Screaming

Last night I watched that

movie about a desperate

poet

so sure of her brilliance

she stalked her hero

believing he could bestow some kind of “poetic serum”

from a vial kept wrapped

in his used napkin.

 

She screamed a lot

tacked a photo of Sylvia Plath upon her dead wall

and I remember

awakening between scenes thinking

of how badly she had to want it

to scream to rage to stalk

so loudly

to declare with absolute

unretractable intent

her purpose

 

while time slips beyond

vague edges of pregnant beginnings and surface grazing

I have never thought to

scream or rage

or charge anyone

at all.

 

Robin

He walked among us

awhile

occupying that space

between

ponderous straight man

and our own private clown.

 

His Going shakes us.

Sobers.

 

Reminds us again:

to respect

humanity’s fragility—-

his

—our own.

 

We are not

our achievements.

We are human.

Soft

Breakable

Small.

 

Each one

worthy

of love

Remembrance.

Leaving our imprint

to linger in

warm places.

 

Love

Too far

proximity defines

possibility

inch

liar pretender coward

synchronicity

lust

clear eyes gazing

blindness

fantasy inhalants hallucinations

resistance

longing denial relenting

advance of dance

lyrics undressed

letters

push

wonder star dreams

stepping

sidewalk stomp lament

sorrow

sighing earth fire

repeat

sparring rest compete

answer

recall single lines

slingblade

strings with moonface

nonsense

hand jive juvenile

shielding hearts

competitive minds

madness

joy laughter spring water

fall

consensus ad idem

you there

taking my time.

 

Portugal

https://soundcloud.com/fhaedra/portugal

 

I feel your age and walk

softly across your cobblestone

I climb your steep hills

to arrive at secret doorways

I wear a skeleton key to enter

ascend narrow stairwells

I gaze out toward your open seas

from your stone towers

I am awakened by the bells

of your ancient hallowed cathedrals

I listen to the clackety clak of your railways

passing through fields and orange groves

I see the clothes of your citizens

drying in the calm breeze

I read the graffiti 

on every abandoned wall and building

I intake the freesia in your fragrant air

I sip the wine you leave for me

next to baskets of ripe fruit

I lean in to you to catch

some small fragment in your language

I am breathless

refreshed, enraptured 

I absorb your grace

I am totally here

Minha bonita

Portugal.