Vespers

Lose yourself in me.
Be the unbidden thought
that follows me to bed.
and tosses my pillows
into dawn's lingering traces.

Be the gentle wager
I make with the night,
the ravage of stars
that follows me until
I can make peace with the dark.

Be the first tumble of dreams
that steals into my mind
and unravels me in eiderdown
while the day steals from my limbs.

And when morning breaks promise,
be the first touch of aurora
to brush against my skin.

The Witching Hour

Th The lost hour of black magic
that trails the rough edge of midnight
when the moon seduces those
whose limbs dance and twitch
like fingers pricked on spindles,
and sleek, supple demons
polish apples and spread their wings,
perching on flecks of amber
to tangle the dreams of lovers.
Desire tightens in a catch of silk,
rippling over the bed clothes -
capturing your cries and whispers.
Buttons open like ragged wounds,
spilling soft pleas of want;
and the sweet torture of skin
pressing skin becomes a music
that leaves you unnerved.
You taste shadows in your mouth
and the bright smoke of memory,
as dark coils like a braid of jet
to blot out the stars and candles -
holding you a willing captive
deep inside the witching hour.

Judas

Let me kiss those lips
so good at stirring up dissent
among the rabble
and keeping dull clerics
on their toes
with nimble questions
that try my patience
and drive strong men to drink,
like how many angels can sit on a pin head
or how do you shove a fat guy
through the eye of a needle?

Turn my water into wine
and stun the crowd
with your miracle of choice.
Maybe the Lazarus trick
where you cheat death
and then appear on a grilled cheese sandwich
to housewives in Hoboken -
one last shell game
from the carpenter who would be king
and start a revolution.
You see, I have a plane to catch
(30 pieces of silver won't get ya far these days)
A one way ticket to the promised land;
but before I go, I need to know
Are we good?

Credits: http://scarlettletters.deviantart.com/gallery/?q=Lady+in+white#/d23trqm

Zephyr

The boy took out a silver hook
and fastened it to a cobweb
and cast it across the summer night,
hoping for a prize
that he could tuck into his pocket
and put under his pillow
to dream upon.
He wanted to hear ghost stories
and taste wild strawberries
and swim in water so cold and clea
r it would dapple his skin blue and make him shiver.
He wanted to catch starfish
and dig for stone crabs under the pier
and eat snow cones until he burst,
painting the night cherry red
with firecrackers.
He wanted to know the colors of an August moon
and touch the sharp edges of stars
and just for one night
to own the sky...

Wanderlust

I want us to ride a tiger,
fur sleek with sandalwood,
out through the bamboo forests
under paper lanterns
and firecrackers that snap the night.
We will ride him bareback
through market stalls of blue tile,
on magic carpets of indigo
and let hennaed fingers
run through our hair
and taste saffron on the summer breeze
that blooms like red orchids.
We will hunt for jade eggs and silver combs
along the silk road
and let our feet find their way to Kathmandu
where we can hear the shimmer of brass bells
and feel the shiver of glass beads
sparkling the dark and our skin,
exploding the night in warm honey.

I want us to steer a sloop
sails unfurled like music
into the green flash of Islamorada
and search for flying fish
among the coral fans and spiny urchins.
We will sleep upon warm sand
through the deep velvet of night
under Casuarina trees
and let steel drum music
lull us to sleep
and taste the rich fire of cane rum
that comes in tin cups.
We will get our cards read and fortunes told
under a palm tree
and let our souls carry us to Curacao
where we can smell Frangipani and summer
and count stars like milk glass marbles
shimmering the sea and our hearts,
blanketing us in wanderlust.

January

Winter came late that year,
catching lazy autumn off guard,
burnishing the late harvest grapes
into the mellow stain of Brandywine
and breathing soft frost
into the dreams of sleeping children.
It rolled pewter across the sky,
chased the moon with chilly fingers
and cast long shadows across the ponds,
lashings of stripped birch branches
rattling windows at midnight,
and slipping through casement cracks
where it hid in silver fog.

It swept leaves from silo lofts;
muddled tobacco and blackberries,
and spangled cobwebbed corners
like stars strung on a bracelet.
It glistened and twinkled
and made the children dream of flying,
feet skimming weightless on silver
like slivered wings of snow owls.
It made old men think of laughing,
and set mothers to baking apples
and unpacking wool coats from trunks
hidden behind the attic eaves
where moonlight practiced magic.

It crept into bowls of snow pudding
and tucked itself under sleds,
piling in drifts against windows.
It stretched across bridges
and nestled over the fields,
trapping wood smoke under grayling skies,
blanketing winter's white burr
with promises of January.