She was a woman built in technicolor:
a vibrant Monet's parasol beauty in a miniskirt with
indecencies etched into her eyelids and the promise of
galaxies mapped out on her lips.
Tell them we died
in late evening while the band still lingered
over their cocktails
and rhythms slid like molasses
over moon-tanned shoulders and under stilettos.
Cinnamon wafted from her hair as she tapped a heel.
I imagined what my mother would say
and I suppose we gathered glances
like some do sea shells
and held them just as tightly.
I am always amazed by how
I am always amazed by how powerful for evocative metaphors are. And I will not mind repeating that as you continue to post more magnificent poems.
Enjoy effulgent days, and exquisite nights,
unto the exultations of Heaven.
Starward
:D
:D
C.Locke
[ * /+/ ^ ]
[ * /+/ ^ ]
Enjoy effulgent days, and exquisite nights,
unto the exultations of Heaven.
Starward
Monet's Parasol didn't come
Monet's Parasol didn't come to life for me near as much as this portrait of expressive wizardry! Fantastic display of poetic artistry, dear poet. I just stumbled in not to long ago. I've been missing out. See you again soon.
Thanks :D The original felt
Thanks :D
The original felt lacking to me so I wanted to rework it. I like this one much more. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
C.Locke