heliosphile

 these floors have felt the drop of a hundred hairs, and hundreds more snipped carefully tip by tip measuring each time, each hour of avoidance added to days of denial. the split ends scatter with ironic common metaphors as the metal of scissors also becomes too familiar. floors and foil, the folding of metals cut past has unfolded shears with metals present. this time the acts are not cutting metal. these times the metal is cutting, but the reverse makes no changes to all these long deadlocks. 

 Soft snow over Amsterdam, will crunch tomorrow through icy tracks leading me back under the sea-another year another trip once again bypassing water, avoiding ships.

 The brush of last week's verse wrote tomorrow I go back under the sea. Wrote that summer nights like these were not built for red wine. The heavy mud raked through teeth should have been best left to sleep in soil for sediments to wind back to some shores. There with the stories from the exchange of shells, I have smelt the Mediterranean salt and air between olive trees and islands of his  youth holiday.  Tracking the traces of mountains on sand, here I breathed another's. There the stitches unfurled from canvas and here, over pebbles, the paper stretches. 

Back by way of tram tracks, pink peppercorns in black chocolate, and hints of Earl Grey tea, the nouns will not be redeemed even when reversed. She of speech undone, left me with no words, thus I write only with what is not my own: ya got me giddy Miss Biddy, I tell ya li'l Miss:

Either you had no purpose Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured And is altered in fulfilment. ..the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of things ill done and done to others' harm.. 

Little Gidding
(T.S. Eliot Four Quartets)

maybe because it's summer they aren't that sharp, it will still take time for the blooms to be berries.
running around i wished for a fall but i didn't, cause it could have been a soft landing.
but that wasn't really the pause- I just thought tomorrow I gotta meet Sally, and I never met Sally, and I will meet Sally in my bright blue dress.
Brambles or nettles, either choice would have a lot of s'plainin to do. cause I couldn't use the garden I had to use the kitchen, and it's been long long long since it talked to the hand.

                                                                             

from missterrob.co.uk.

fathoms below, fathoms below, the sailing song starts with fathoms below, beginning a film that was never written so...
        

tomorrow back under the sea where a painter dropped paper cuts for pebbles for me, scripts returning lettered memories by a shore

February snow this white, that is far better kind of white, fall softly to blanket last year of betrayals, those layers of sticky fingered slayers. This morning the car that drove past was a wrong shade of blue. In manila, there are neon stickers of Jesus on a motorcyle, Jesus in a car, and they channel the prayers of humble drivers for the road to be safe. I would pray today roads for right cars keep true in the driver's chosen landscapes. I have no salt which sated me to throw on routes, as letters last year were cut one by one from sentences each time a blip appeared to scramble texts that bounced of screens. No salt for the moment to taste metaphors, to flavor right writing. This February i will cross under the sea again this time Valentine's day in search of mountains projected in the midst of tulips sold by the sea. February that borne my sister and kind love, snowflakes twirled through snippets of a song on sonnets to mouth lyrics regarding a desired constellation. These stars are marked on cheeks to mirror mine. An ox turns the wheel, in silence, threading silk through snow brought offerings through stilled passages.

So it happened when pirate ships kept sailing past that an anchor instead was painted in the rogue waters, bringing stillness through a silver desert in the sea. Strangely it was the salt that slaked with silence the thirst. Absence sated, longing follows new lines over crisscrossed crimson paths in vermillion powdered trails past slapped shadows of hummingbirds and empty bowls from cinnamon.

The Lady of the Lake knows the heaviness of Excalibur weighing the paths of Arthur, Launcelot and Guinevere. What would be her measure of the depth of lotus petals atop a valley which once was a lake, and the pull of waters west? Running past charred rivers on crinkled silver she tripped on heartdrops from lakesides. Time to ask the sea.

From either shore of the cold North Sea the painters beckon " wait !" with pigment coloured calls. Trying to stay afloat in the middle swimming paintstroke by backstroke I hope to be hoisted aboard a pirate ship.

eleven times in less than six months back and forth between countries, petals dampened in sleet and rain i have tried to move away from vanilla scented steps between eleven borders

the song of old jazz ladies has trailed past the tinkle of pianos and strings strung out on cold pavements left with echoes of irises, waiting to retrace paths and pebbles,

waiting to cut new stems perhaps next apple blossom time