A poem… — And your village shingles untethered flown to dust sifting the ruin of cities. Sleep pleasures skin sky your last memories beyond the photos in your car. Damp jade grass first crimson then crisped then nothing. Gone bedrooms kitchen tables the vase of flowers among deserts of bedframes and remember white cotton sheets and damp bath towels on the floor? Streets to ash pitting your eyes dust of your abstinent mouth speaks…

A poem…to take you there. After laying hot the morning astride the whitewashed bowl of the salted pool balancing the emerald sea beside we left our naked shadows in the noonday hours our breasts too pale to stay so long. The sun burned our turning skin like razors splaying fruits. From Blue Harbour we climb…

A remembrance — Our cousin’s attic smelled like hot ripped timbers, brittle and dry after all the years it had perched there, spilling dust, balanced high atop its narrow Victorian house like a huge hat you could play in. Beside the steep stairwell a bed, metal springs creaked and squashed if you jumped or rolled…

As I heard it… — Her voice lands on my hearing straight as rain plugs prismed lawns in a windless drench She speaks detached, simple wisdom trailing diction behind her heritage Sings soulful secrets sown by girls of every age — fertile epics buried in muddy tropic bloodlines, needled into long blue veins Sweaty dreams…

It’s what’s happening at the end of this year. — They’re burning the forest down on purpose every day now for three weeks. Another pile of fire enlightening the newly-formed field brilliant and flaming sending carbon crackling and smoke spreading aloft like hot fog among layers of December’s cold fog come into my house. It’s a small forest the one I…

For Wednesday Prose Poem: what magic would you… —

One more true story. — so if i spoke with you now talked beyond the eye-rolling communication of misremembered fatal feelings arrowed sharp and cold poisoned way beyond hot injections screamed from our center and our throats; what if we spoke just one micro piece at a time through the handheld pipe of peace sharing what we know is true …that we really are just grains of sand…

For J.D. Harms’ Saturday Poetry Prompt: the wild natural. True story. — when you and i were leopards we crawled on hands and knees through thickets living out their name our reward a scarlet mist of chiggers, there was biting, and ticks, there was ticking, and sharp hot grasses shot burrs and thistles up our thighs like lusty tongues licking playing with barbed wire. and the sounds our throats made pounded us on, making our…

Seems like a theme here...this is fabulous writing....I think there's a time and a place for spontaneity and this story is the proof....Very well done...