She walks slowly
She feels gently
like water caressing
the stone it pierces
in the long haul of time…
The cleavage of a rose
tells all about her beauty.
Fine alabaster lies
In the heart of her skin.
Sweet fruits alive
in the deep velvet
of a green swirl
are dappled with her insurmountable scent.
She catches the tendrils of care
sent by your star
She buries them
in her armature of love.
Your breath is
mortgaged to her smile…
in the shade of the evening:
“Can you dance on water with I?”
“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.
Down by the river on a bed of leaves, we shed our skin and touch. We are lovers high on romance. We are lovers drunk on each other’s bodies and a mixture of vodka and gin and random shots of something that has left us with tears in our eyes. With your hands above your head, you submerge them in the cold, green water that flows so slowly without a reason why. Whispering into your ear, I tell you things no one else knows, things that have been kept inside through fear, the same fear I tasted on your lips the night we first met. The newspapers tell us that we are close to war. It’s on TV, too. But then we always are, and the saddest part is that we are even at war with ourselves and will continue to be until the day we die. Looking into your eyes, I can see you’re wearing the mascara you stole from Boots. Told you not to, but what good did it do? Still, you look so beautiful, and yet… And yet there will be a day when we go our separate ways and these tender moments will be left to fade. It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, but how sad to think that there will come a time when moments such as these will be wiped from existence? Maybe it’s the booze talking, or it’s just my writer’s mind going into overdrive because of the fear brought on by the missiles North Korea are amassing. Lifting your hands from the river and playing with the curls of my hair, you ask me what I’m thinking, but I tell you none of this. Instead, I rest my head on your chest and describe the dream I had last summer where the earth was knocked off its orbit and shunted into outer space. It was a warm and bright day, and I was walking down the street of a local town by the name of Ampthill when the ground shook and the skies were sucked of all their matter. Within seconds the land was plunged into darkness, and as the air in my lungs ran dry, I turned to my right and could just about make out a young girl looking at me from the window of a library. She was waving, and as my vision dissolved, I couldn’t figure out if she was waving hello or goodbye. Raising my head, I ask you what it could mean but you give no reply. With a faint smile spread across your painted lips, you’ve silently slipped into sleep.
S. K. Nicholas is blogger at myredabyss.com and author of A Journal for Damned Lovers. To learn more about S.K. and A Journal for Damned Lovers read Jasper Kerkau’s interview with S.K. and his review of A Journal for Damned Lovers.
I’m drowning in an infinite ocean, salted by my tears. Trapped in this dark world, illuminated only by the moon’s soft glow, I cry, and I beg for an end to my suffering. For salvation. A reprieve. But the tide keeps pulling me away. No matter how hard I kick, or thrash in those crashing waters, I gain no purchase. With the last of my strength, I pull my head above the surface and gulp a desperate breath into my burning lungs, breathing out words in a whisper even I can’t hear, “Save me.” And then those darkened waters pull me under for the last time.
Sarah Doughty is the wordsmith behind her website, Heartstring Eulogies, author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed Earthen Witch universe, a collection of novels and novellas, all offered for free (https://thesarahdoughty.wordpress.com/useful-links/). To learn more about Sarah and her books, check out her website (http://thesarahdoughty.wordpress.com/about) and Goodreads (https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13753138.Sarah_Doughty).
It rains every day but there is no water.
In Chitose-Funabashi, the puddles are fine and the river runs wide,
But showers are on timers.
Take the wrappers off the bottles, keep the lettuce in the larder,
The neighbors eye our bin.
This summer, lightning strikes harder but the rains lose heart.
Locals don’t taste the noodles, the flavor’s in the broth.
It rains every day but there is no water.
[David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. Also, he’s freakin’ awesome.]