Velvet Night–Photography post #1

While that sound could be

either your voice

or the strings of a course violin

I find I fear the failure

of my hands to move

my lips to open,

letting in carbon dioxide

(but that’s just a myth, wouldn’t you think?

sort of a saying?– stop talking!)

my eyes to blink,

or my mind to waver

from savoring the idea

that somewhere, somehow

you will embrace me like a great vat of velvet night

encircling the atmosphere

urging me fly to you

like a moth embraces light.

 

what casual thought is this?

you exude a freezing warmness

that I could not touch

but touched me.

like summer in an endless frost

where a bird soars upward gazing at the view

of the lost wandering few

I remember who I am upon the waking,

but discard my reality with the early morning dew.

 

So, because I fear that which is finite

I choose you, not here,

not there not really anywhere

but soft, plush and light watched,

yet hidden in plain sight,

a truth that no one knows,

like a vat of velvet night .

 

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry 

Photography by Golden Star Poetry

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On Size and Truth

1.

in her dream last night

she looks inside a dusty chamber

with walls echoing

not yealding

she wants to be her mirror reflection so badly

but her voice just comes back

again

and again

through that glass and coated silver.

then she hurries through the water

the antichamber and the sand

scurrying out, out, out of

the cliffs

and the rockface.

That image is only a small glimpse.

mother asked: is it like looking at a pinhole of a sweater?”

“of a blanket” I said.

( well, It’s hard to say

when you stare into absolving water and dust.)

Its funny you mention

size:

i was once predestined to marry

a man I had never met.

he told my mother fresh sweet lies

about his past

the sad fate it was to me, her precious little girl. (sweet little good girl)

mother asked “how many lies did he make? a dozen?”

“a thousand” I say.

(well, it’s hard to remember,

they seemed so real).

It’s funny you mention

truth:

2.

I had this itch to see you last night

when the white Pickett fences in Iowa take on a bluish sort of hue in the

fading light

and the birds and trees stoop down to trees–

I wanted it,

I wanted to see all of you–

when i stopped

and i realized

you were just about

as convincing to me

as the lies i told myself to sleep.

(for how could i be sure when the little holes seemed so precious?

when i loved the thought of you, not you? )

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry