All posts by Diana

A little here a little there, with at least one foot firmly placed. Otherwise my motorcycle might tip, tight? Finding my mid age art groove thing in the blogosphere. Poems, photography and more. Grateful for every second of my existence; of the journey. Seeking tranquility and connection with the tender souls of the world.

Retract

if i arch my back, just so

you will hear the gutteral crack

of ribs splaying

and thunder peal

confined to a distant canyon

 

observe the blood rivulet flow

tinted crimson

from rhodonite glow

 

did you think of yourself as some indelible mark on my being?

how easily I’ve erased your ochred pigments

from my crumbled cave walls

 

Lascaux?

indeed no

 

you were only the sharpest point of the trident

ending some turgid trilogy of torment

 

so stand back

drop the Finochietto*

little blood, no gore

though you expected more

your surgical precision

met with

phlegmatic derision

 

 

*a type of surgical retractor designed to separate ribs in chest surgery. Named after Argentinian surgeon Enrique Finochietto

Blood Letting

it began the day we met

although that day we refuse to mark in time

for you say you were ever mine

unnoticed at first

tender words tumbled

settling on leaves, crumbled

kicked by gleeful children

easily buried

as common patois

as the weeks passed

my heart passively filled

and words emptied

in systematic blood letting

a ritual even Galen would deem

surprisingly extreme

with flooding gush

from sharpened fleam

so when i say i’m lost for words

i mean my words are lost from me

my exsanguinated self

in speechless stirrings

stutters

to a final, single, syllable

till here, so render me

your silent soliloquy

………………………………….

Galen of Pergamum (129-200 AD) was a proponent of the practice of bloodletting. Disease was thought of as an imbalance of the four “humors” : blood, phlegm, black bile; yellow bile. Declaring blood as the most dominant humor, bloodletting was often the gory answer!

Fleam: bloodletting implement with multiple blades of different sizes folded into a case.

What I see

the story, largely untold

in hollow eyes, dare i behold ?

as we pass in the street

at a common hour

them two

and i

an unwilling wallflower

 

this is the telling of averted gaze

sharp glimpses, in acid haze

where passion once dared to tread

it’s distant echo, a severed thread

 

this is the telling of hope emaciated

stumbling forward, duty bound

finger mark bruises at cuff link edge

a destiny soured, scarred, uncrowned

 

this is the telling

of closed doors, midnight yelling

glass shards of anguish there dwelling

 

my wallflower imagination

ever trembling

 

Thanks to S.G for this challenge …to write about a  random topic: “a couple I saw on my way home from work.” Much harder to complete than I had originally thought. And the more I imagined them, the more dark the writing became.

A seed

did it rain all day …

did the clouds not part their lead

loaded grey?

your heart mud heavy in the moist

your spirit soaked

in need of hoist

oh how I wanted to be your shelter

but at first i could barely raise

a rusted umbrella frame

my own self in search

of enfeebled ovule to reclaim

a seed set swirlward to shallow drain

till our fingers meshed there

to sieve and save

ourselves

this union, we crave

your name … so shall I engrave

in the dry ground tomorrow

 

Woodsmoke (… a share…)

the woodsmoke of your soul seeps deep into my skin it follows my every move i turn away within there — again it lingers pungent puncture of cold pine air, of vacant love toasted with scent of heart of combustive heat that burns i walk faster until my breath runs to forget is a fool’s […]

via Woodsmoke — Poet Girl Em

 

Rarely, words coincide with feelings of the moment. I can barely speak about this poem, it’s staggering beauty speaks for itself…

With thanks to Emily C  xo

My life as a play

i have lost my taste for the everyday

a maudlin, empty theatre play

scenes dehydrate…

the set walls slide away

and

dramatic briskness falls bland

exit directed by a lone stage hand

doors bolted

 

seeking solace instead

i seek a grander outdoor stage

my soul bindle wrapped tight

grasping firmly, this new page

so captivating a script

 

in which

I wander along barren sands

an enlightened journey to me

as ocean laps, rubbing stones to shine

a hand reaches ever gently for mine

and we walk

untethered to place

and time

us two, centre stage

under warm spotlight shine

Depleted

in these canyons of craving

we shuffle as

shadowed silhouettes

shallow footprints never settling

under a stinging desert shamal

squinting through silica scathing

with sand grit mouth

our lips pull away

parched, lithic dry…

your pernicious passion contrived

in clandestine contrast

to the sky

which thereafter floods blue

from tears

bathing

true