French Blue Skies
 
She recalls French blue skies when cold invades
and being alone is unbearable;
they are her sanctuary in winter.
 
When he was present, the grey washed away.
Even when distanced by thought, he was still
wrapped inside her heart; she took him with her
to work each morning, to her bed at night.
 
A silent traveling partner, he shared
the sight of ocean below the plane,
lights atop the Eiffel Tower at dusk,
croissants and dark coffee laced with cream –
the enjoyment of a Paris café.
 
She journeyed alone thousands of miles,
to find her way back into love again.
 
 
Siobhan
1/15/2010

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He Wanders

Lost in the wooded darkness, fantasy
vanishes; blue eyes (once captured in sky
light) are dimmed beneath the canopy to
misted grey. The trail, dropped along the way
into this grand journey, has disappeared.
The bread crumbs have mixed in with the soil;
feed the beasts surrounding him – both real and
imagined. Spider webs tangle across
his path, catch in his beard and grab his soul.
Their weavers crawl slowly up arms and legs.
Daring adventure has turned to danger;
uncertainty clouds his sight – he wanders.

Forest green eyes, damp with teardrop-kissed dew
watch, unable to guide his progress home.

© Siobhan
03-23-09


Alabaster and Vermilion


The burnished gold of sunsets, now faded
from my eyes, blinds me to the past we had.
Those pictures, colored with washed out shades of
(once vibrant)
alabaster, vermilion –
flesh and blood – breathe life in where life has left.
The verdigris tint has dulled to pale jade
and the suggestion of a blush, now soft,
accentuates my un-kissed ruby lips
still parted in the whisper of your name.

I see the reflection of those sunsets
(memories)
caught in blue windows – your eyes
shuttered against the truth, our existence.
If they had been captured – alabaster,
vermilion – we’d be blinded together.

© Siobhan
02-27-09


Pirouette

 

He hasn’t seen her pirouette in years –

so lost in fantasies, unfocused, he

searched paths to the past while she was dancing.

Whispered between pale lips, a lilting tune

called – no siren song – she asked for his dreams

to be real, graced with happiness missing

from his blue eyes; that elusive vision.

 

Bending, turning, twisting, their life’s meaning

shifted, stumbled with unfamiliar steps.

Naked need met want neither recognized,

moving them farther away from their own

goals – desires, once shared, shattered pieces

a simple pirouette could not repair.

She dances with ghosts now, her own – not his.

 

 

©Siobhan

1-11-09


Stepping into the Bath

When stormy brews in the blue of his eyes
I hear thunder roll through my body and know
rain and lightning approach to bathe me;
ecstasy in my forecast as the clouds build high
along the western edges of my awareness.

My body dampens with the droplets, dew
moist and warm as one front meets the other.
I toss my head back, and so exposed,
offer myself up, no sacrifice, to pleasure.
His tempest cleanses my soul, immersed
in his desire, I am purified from the inside – out.

Generations are born in this passion’s maelstrom.