Projects in B&W
Smoke
№ IAbode A network of memories,
soil rich with thought.
Uncounted rings:
nature's forgetmenot.
Found neath the shade,
we melt away -
lost not to time,
but relics of sunlight.
№ IIHolding On There is color where my heart cannot reach.
There is a feeling of happiness in the throes
of everything we once were.
Even though the hues no longer
dance to the same tune,
we are still there, riding and laughing, consumed
by a vibrancy that will never fade.
It remains, quietly smiling
in spite of the pressing shadows that have moved in.
№ IIITreaty We watch the world forget about us.
Everything we built is now in ruins,
because the storm refuses to pass.
Ink runs red after a century of changes,
and we can hardly fault ourselves
for wanting peace without blood.
But the skies have grayed
and our hearts have stayed.
This is a hill to die on, an ideal to stand for;
but it will not be the last grave,
and far from the last war.
№ IVTides Pluvial shadows douse
where fingers have trekked,
a cartographer's dreamland //
but when motes of light
find the swells of her sea,
no bated breath can keep at bay
the heart's almost violent need
to conquer every wave
№ VChanteuse Music lingers on your lips
without ever being sung.
There is no easy way
to say goodbye to an Earthangel,
it's Casablanca all over again.
But the notes are there,
ready to be kissed
into the ether.
I could just as well follow you
into the hedge maze
of tomorrow, where even
the baptism of sunshine --
as if a bright white sound --
cannot overpower
the jazz in your eyes.
№ VIAppetite The little giggle between bites.
Your dimples, like ellipses
leading to the next overture.
We sit and talk, as if time
is nothing but a few crumbs.
Life is on the menu and I want it all;
but when I look at you --
I realize I need another stomach.
The glint of silverware
beneath soft fluorescence
pales in comparison to the glisten
that catches me when you grin.
A bustle of patrons
having good times is infectious;
it fills me with optimism
that our meal won't stop here.
№ VIINyctanthous You can still hear the owls
if you look hard enough.
I've been listening to the night
for so long that no disquiet
in this jungle of steel and concrete
can obfuscate how I perceive
the life hiding in plain sight.
It's beautiful, really.
When the sun retreats
and the moon triumphs,
no lamppost can hide,
no graffiti can camouflage,
that which blossoms at night.
№ VIIIPrefix The readiness of motion.
A gasp of disbelief
as light plays with her features,
proving no degree of vagueness
can hamper the inexorability
of her beauty.
The room sighs with anticipation,
while the eyes still revel
at the subtleties of magnificence
inundating her visage.
There is no shortage of magic here,
only a captured moment
to, when times are calmer, revere.
№ IXPuppeteer Unhallowed touch //
I can feel the cold rain, already
- cascading down my spine,
leaving in its wake
hairline fractures.
In which your phantom fingers
have hibernated,
lurking - waiting - to prey deeper,
to play like piano keys
all the parts of me
that strengthen for worship,
that weaken for servility.
It is not a death grip
you have over me;
this is the best version of life
I have ever suffered.
№ XReverie Tonight, her dreams take flight --
they've wings of white,
like clouds gliding past the moon.
You would slay legions
to know the secrets in her eyes,
the names of every shadow
inhabiting her flesh,
but tonight she is her own,
an angel of glass and sight.
A daydream thrust through window
and cast well above the sky.
A glimpse of beauty, perpetual
as it flutters between your fingers.
№ XIBlink Color falls in heaps
a grave of hues
stenciled by breath
they come in waves
a slow plummet
from cloven clouds
on the coattails
of fluttering lashes
mortality entrapped
by the brazen silence
caught in moments
betwixt song-tongue