Nocturnes At The Borders & Leaving This House, as published by Subterranean Blue Poetry


Why do I like Subterranean Blue Poetry?

Because in addition to a real cool name they have fine sense of the poetic – very happy to have been chosen to keep such good company!

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume V Issue VII
(July 2017)

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Subterranean Blue Poetry

www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com

© 2017

Nocturnes At The Borders

by PD Lyons
 

a long passing caravan of days

deserted debris

   hope a pitch black oasis –

sparkling the only un-still things

such as stars, jewel throat ghosts,

your eyes beyond all knowledge,

the only dark that shines –

   a different kind of sun.
 

my mouth for your love

dreams smoke wandering horizons

red glow desert

a voice wet silk

drawn as if my skin

found out in the wind

perfumed by foreign creatures

nourished by such exploring

my heart contains a fertile seed

   A treasure trove for beetles an insect paradise.
 

I saw you with tears in American gowns

you were just like Picasso but knelt on the ground

as if genuflecting before the print page you’d inhale

the spirit right out of his grave and I just couldn’t

take it so I wandered around as if I could shake you

Like salt from my skull

   Always returning an orbit of doubt.
 

 

The scent of your soapy skin draws me in

ways I cannot identify

like ivory in the morning someplace else away

beyond a snow tipped mountain

before the savannahs open prayer

dark meandering luxurious survival

   Our daring selves mortal among the Edens.

 

 

 

 

Leaving This House

by PD Lyons

 

Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,

soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches

knowing my need for such kindness

even crows come quietly…
 

What is it of memory and seasons?

What does this shift to autumn bring me?

Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?
 

A bed of rolled up cotton,

sun dried white sheets against pale skin,

wishing it was some hangover

so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,

sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you’d need.
 

I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine

we sank beneath that wind chime tree

surrendered on the beating earth

something more than blood and bones,

a tender lightening wove between us

our own muscles able to morph the world.
 

Now such things cannot be spoke of.

Distorted by sick eyes they’d only deepen your

regrets, as if what was could ever not be.

If you responded to preaching, I’d simply preach.

Instead I must lure you by disguise –
 

Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,

audibly stirred blue stone mug.

Herbs infused with full ripe summers.

Small secret woodland tinctures.

Ointments rich in years of flowers.

Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar

warmed as needed over an open flame.
 

Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.

 

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