The rubberband you placed around my heart tightens with the passage of each lunar cycle.
Soon it will reach the point where my heart can neither contract nor expand.
What will happen to me then?
What will happen to you?
Listen as the receding poetry murmurs its fragile final lines.
Copyright 2009
What sound does a broken heart make?
Is it the metallic sting of an iron-forged tear detonating on a silken pillowcase?
Is it the hoarse whisper of a once-forgotten name unexpectedly surfacing out of some subconscious voice, slipping past lips before the last syllable can be caught and swallowed?
Is it the echoing footsteps of a lost lover’s walk, paradoxically reverberating louder the further its memory moves away?
Or is it simply the silence of words left unspoken, endearments never murmured?
The long empty soulway of neglected love is a deep void filled with bruised pain.
And in this boundless, barren vacuum, the echo of a broken heart shatters like delicate glass, vibrating the eardrums of masochistic mute lovers.
Copyright 2009
If I could wrap you up in a cashmere embrace, I would hold you close until you found who you are.
I would rock you gently to the rhythms of the lunar tide and whisper your name softly until you became the sound.
My strength and affection would shield the fragile skin of your soul until I myself became weary and lonely.
If I could choose to do so, I would crack your heart open on the anvil of our friendship and forge your essence into the shape of your dreams.
But all of these things you must do for yourself.
I can only stand by and wish on your wings.
Copyright 2009
I stand behind the veil of a tender taboo, watching you, wanting you, knowing that the delicate curtain between us is fragile enough to tear but formidable enough to forbid.
It is not my place to decide which one it will be.
Condemned to stand guarded watch on the sharp edge of life’s desire, I can only pray for a stray word to sanction a way inside.
Copyright 2009
It was water that brought them together, though neither one could swim.
The young one envied frogs, marveled at their ability to absorb liquid through the skin, fixated on the dual nature of their cycle.
Yet there was an underlying uneasiness with their lives, one that caused her throat to constrict and her lungs to tighten.
This heavy feeling of water repelled yet fascinated her.
Perhaps it was the leftover imagery of what had once tried to reclaim her, perhaps it was the innate understanding that this element held life’s secret core, perhaps it was her bond with the older one.
The older one, who feared water with the same intensity that others fear death, now began to reach out to the element that suffocated her subsconscious for so long.
She remembered the miracle of life as the younger one hung suspended in a cave of water before bursting forth with a cry of elation and shock, her entrance into the world heralded with the applause of water.
The older one’s fingers instinctively smoothed over the folds of her aged abdomen where the younger one once waited with her.
Two were one so long ago.
Now the water called, beckoning one closer, holding the other at bay.
While the liquid of the earth might warrant trepidation, the water of the soul commands only love.
They smiled, each for the other.
What joined them now would one day seperate them – but the tides remained, eternal and perfect, as the moon this very night.
Copyright 2009
He is a spirit man, inhaling reality, exhaling dreams, holding his medicine close to his heart…but his charm oozes through his pores with the slightest exertion.
A magnet of magic, he attracts and repels, unaware of his power.
People lean in to his words, bathed gently in the sweet balm of his breath.
And why not?
He makes them feel the impossible is right there with them.
He soothes their psyches and excites their fingertips.
Dreams have more energy than the atomic bomb if properly detonated. He tells me this.
He speaks to me in words dripping with poetry.
He dances instead of walks.
His hair is electric.
But I, like the others, buy deodorant for his charisma and insulating gel for his curls.
Too much of a good thing can kill you.
Copyright 2009
I breathe you in, sweet as the scent of moonlight, easy as the effort of autumn.
I breathe you out, difficult as a dying wish, uncertain as the promise of hereafter.
Copyright 2009
Who knew that I would be in a relationship with a pyromaniac?
Yet here you come, home from your day, shoes smoldering, ashes in your hair, eyes ablaze.
And all I can do is offer you a cold beer and an extinguisher.
Copyright 2009
I have tasted the forbidden fruit and would rather feast in a disturbing world than starve alone in paradise without you.
If I am to be Eve, you must agree to the bite.
Copyright 2009
Pangea illustrates your gypsy feet while the earth’s rotation gyroscopes your soul.
Does it bother you that your eyes are the color of ancient cultures or that animals sense your presence long before you awaken?
How can you sleep with all the tribal whispers sighing in your dreams?
The urge to migrate is as strong a presence in your being as the pull of gravity.
You cannot stay any more than the moon can keep its shape constant.
And why must you go?
Do you hear the chant of the lunar tide even as we say goodbye?
Dance along if you must, but remember the rhythm of your movement is drummed by the heartbeats of your home, your lodestone.
Watch the moon at midnight to see that those of us left behind have painted your saga in a myth.
One day you will sprout roots but for now soar on the breath of the wind and journey on the magic of your passion.
You are one of the fluid beings in life, more motion than form.
Go then, you who seek the past forever in the future.
Our thoughts will shadow you and act as your talisman.
We cannot keep you here so we celebrate as we let you go.
Copyright 2009
Donna Dakota in Word 