In Response to My Touch

 

Letters strung, loosely held by glaring white end caps

Words dangle soundlessly, caressing new found landscapes

 

Trust me, Love me, Need me,

Braille etched deeply across finger tips

 

Sun beats down, rock beneath, sky above

Anchored securely against storms raging

 

Chocolate warmth spills over

Bubbling just beneath the surface

 

Warmth creeps, stalking, longing

Waiting, finding purchase

 

Youth peaks shyly from beneath cobwebs

Hoping truth rests beneath butterflies

 

Cloudless skies smile on blooming fields,

Springs first blush creeps across hilltops

 

Daggers slice grins across scarred faces,

From newness springs smiles, laughter

 

Scarlet sears scratches perpetrated long ago

Replenishing losses, relinquishing all

 

Girlish giggles escape, released into forever

Dreams dreamt, realities replayed

Brittle Pages

 

Brittle pages flutter down from high
Long forgotten letters, words, thoughts
Dance across, away, glance off
Sunlight blazes holes through centuries

 

Letters skirt the edges of words

Belying memories
Black spaces truly emerge

 

Long sought after cherished memories

Only ghosts, wisping silently out of corners

 

Sand, sweat, salt air

Taffy, glaring white, denim

 

Cap shadowing eyes,

Swinging, cracking, adrenaline fueled sprint

 

Warmth, chill, crickets chirping

Damp sneakers, sore thighs, limestone cave

 

Tamra Maew

 

A frisky intelligence perches herself regally on the edge of the dirty beige sofa

and she begins to muse at length about ancient sacred knowledge.

My little Wichien-maat, so wise so fragile,

life has yet to show you the end of the string you chase in your youth.

 

Tilting your head and crinkling your nose,

an impatience for those less adventurous than you,

an agitation with those who linger too long in the blush of childhood

not ambitious enough to charge ahead after shiny baubles.

 

The sleekness of your hair betrays the unfringed anger,

bottled and brazen, uncertain of whether to bare your claws or slink away.

My little Wichien-maat, so young so persistent,

life will lead you to many different trials some barren some plush.

 

Let your bonds guide you.

Let your curiosity lead you.