Dreams Are Fragile Things (re-post)

Harry wipes up the beer spills from the bar in the blue backlight from the TV
and waits in seismic hope to see the door swing open
dreams are fragile things
dreams are bubble things
mastering the art of art
rising on nothing but air they pop so quickly but they float so effortlessly
so addictively and seductively
some places are crammed full of the outlines of popped dreams
the air still hums with their is-it-possibles
and sitting at this bar you suddenly feel you have a story to tell
while the smoke hangs in waiting wraiths across the ceiling
and the folk surrounding lean in closer to hear
seeking the courage to bring theirs out also
like brass coins to display
here’s one I have had for a long time….
dreams are fragile things
they can love you and they can hurt you
and in the wrong hands they can turn like a sword and cut
so deep that the scars themselves become a different tale
all it takes is one convert to the spartan altar of empty promises
a Theodore to tarnish the brass coins hidden and cherished and kept bright rubbed and warm
for so long
the fragile bubble implodes
and the light from the TV is only electric haze…



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The Edge


turn back tuesday…

Originally posted on Chimera Poetry:

john_howe_unsorted_the edge of the world

Here there be monsters….
The edge looms in the mist ahead
always in the distance
one must turn aside well before
or risk disaster and a bone crunching end
but the challenge entices
the boundary dances mockingly before me
and sends me speeding headlong
into the deepest shrouds of fog
parting at the very last moment
with a sound like a great deep bell
and I can at last see clearly
as I fall off the edge of the world…


*artwork by john howe*

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Carnevale dreaming……..

S’not fair.

Writing the book, suffering, bleeding ink all over.

Stumbling days and sleepless nights.


But nooooooooooooooooo.


Grammar Nazis. People who are THOROUGH.  Who do not let one spare line

or meandering font get by…

Or….by another name…


“Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can’t think what anybody sees in them …”



Sigh hugely.

And then I just sit back and wait (petulantly) some more.

I will have good news for you soon. I hope.

Watch this space!

At least there is some kickass artwork (thank you again Sorell!!! mwah!)

Columbina crop1

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is it the wind calling me?

Originally posted on Chimera Poetry:

Is it the wind calling?
Is it the wind that calls me?
I can feel it rising and the thoughts bloom like night poppies
narcotic and fragrant
they come with the southern winds
with the smell of hot oil and herbs and sweat
Is it the wind calling?
am I to accept its invitation
am I to follow
ignoring the underscents of rage
of piety
and the crumbling perfume of old passions
too long hidden away
they smell like daylight trapped for years in an abandoned house
what will that wind tell me
if I dare answer? If I turn my face toward it
wrinkled like last autumns apples
will I breathe in its whisper and let it fill me
billowing my lungs like sails and
feel it lift me
let me fly to meet and follow the winds call
Or will the scents disappear
dissolve like dreams traces as…

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The End

This is the end.
The paved road stops here.
I have searched out the paths and the passwords
 the highways and right ways
 and talked the talk,
all golden tickets sought out and coveted,
yet they all crumbled
leaving my purse empty and my fingers green with the falsehoods smearing off of them
and I am…
I have expanded myself to be heard 
to be seen 
to be taken seriously
not for a ride
or at face value
and still the on the job training fell too short
and I have been invited to wander once again.
Good bye
good luck
good riddance….
I will no longer reach out
no longer expand.
I will contract instead to feel my experience
my self
at its purest
its most powerful.
A stars last breath is its brightest
and instead of begging for a map to the neon lit crowd pleasing intersections
I will choose my own way
build my own bridges
and burn 
oh so brightly 
with them.


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Originally posted on Chimera Poetry:

(Posted on August 3, 2014 by chimerapoet)

Hivesong ~

In the Cities of the Bees the Queen whispers unceasingly

Welcome and well met my children

and you feel her as the sun all gold and glowing

and you sink into the heat softening, changing

your bones pliable with the songs flowing thick and heavy like cream

like ancient cherry liqueur and you drink it in

you submerge until the sweetness and the richness covers and fills your marrow

your memories

and your eyes and ears overflow and your heart fills near to bursting with the spice and velvet

plum purple and berry scents

the Hives are tall towers of ivory and coppergold and black and crystal

slender spires reaching into the clouds

while below the warm and flowing rivers of wax wind silently beneath and through them

heavy and fragrant as over ripened grapes powdery white

the Hivesong lives in…

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The Widow

Originally posted on Chimera Poetry:

jaroslaw datta

The veil settles over my hair as I take my place at the head of the mourners table
I am the balm for those seeking
a sign which releases them from their guilt
the questions they must ask to forget
my assurance that death can be tender in his touch
in his taking
is enough
the slow dance has ended
and the last rubble settles as the grave cools
the long winter
the long wait begins
and I
with gauzy eyes will sit by your side
and hold you in this half world
to mourn and mourn without release
to mold your memories into my trophy
my triumph
and all I need sacrifice
is your peace…


*artwork by jaroslaw datta*

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