Mossy Stone

Struck by the vicious lines of her face,

The curt angles,

                  Juts,       contour,

Architect,      To a mess of curly hair

Tangled curves,       clouding outward

shrouded arrows, 

            iceberg softened,

rounded vice, 

     ...asks what of her heart, 

locked vault or a welcome? 

          

Lapdog in mourning.

The beauty stands stone like, carved not crafted, her hands are tucked away beneath her shoulders, her legs squared away, her back is straight but hardened. her gaze is in waiting.

He wouldbeherowouldbelover comes from behind to caress those caught shoulders, they move not an inch, he plies at them pleads with his hands for a break, a break through.

He alters, wraps his muscles around her, holds her. She does not break.

His face is casual but his hands are desperate, they slide around, her back, her shoulder, her neck, her collarbone, his movements show he'd  steal her away, give her a new day, take what she gave, but she won't let him.

He leans into her back, knowing her braced stance will hold him, his arm around her chest,  synchronizing breaths in the attempt, she does not falter. 

She waits, eyes straight, her coffee is served and she breaks her posture to lift it to her mouth. 

And then she acknowledges him.

#14) familiar summits

Rather than copy and paste all the poems over here... see Too Much Imagination for poems from August and September 2014.

Some of them are alright.

Here is one of them

#14) familiar summits

Your smile is a song I've always known,

 though I've heard it for the first time, today,

Somewhere in my stretching arteries,

       a shout,

                    a pounce,

                                   an "I've got you!"

Now, where did that come from?

      Some melody wrapped around my throat,

Choking on joy, the glow and blush

of cheeks raised. The notes easing aches,

And causing entirely different intestinal pains,

My toes tap the new heart rhythm...

I've seen glimmers in eyes,

     heard the stars and their high notes,  but there's 

Something like comfort in your gaze,

Like a song sung by our mother, like 

A song sung before the lapse in innocence,

And my instinctual reaction to hymns like that, is to shiver, to shudder, an attempt to contain,

Soon my lids  will close to your light, 

          but my soul will

             dance 

               uplifted 

        by your harmony.