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7.34mmA simple measurement
can make a man
lose himself; a blurring, no more
than a grainy smudge

a scant 7.34mm long
this rice-grain, seven weeks old
with one hundred and twenty nine
heartbeats per minute

—all this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart

for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.

Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.

The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.

He mentions his wife
they'd been marri

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

Witches MarketMidnight fell like an old black bird;
I meant to wait for you.

There were tables rich with
amethyst and pearls,
and fragrance by the fistful,
mint and petrichor.
I meant to wait for you.

You were gliding through the haze
with your knotted bag half full-
shadows flicked their tongues
above your knees;
you meant to look for me.

Moments ran like mice;
a silver pot, a cup of tea.

She stank of vinegar and thyme-
the hand was hers, the heart was mine.
Her iron eyes reflected flame;
she took my lungs, she took my name,
though you had meant to look for me,
and I had to meant to wait for you
amid the black salt and the brew.

Ash

ConfessionLips met in clumsy haiku,
against each other, pressed,
the way the earth touches the sky,
soft and whimsy as the dusk.

Tongues painted passion-
          sunset colors,
          halcyon atmosphere, infused,
-upon every awaiting space offered.

Metaphors dotted the hallows of limbs and tasted like the seasons-
          a bursting and vibrant spring,
          a hot and passionate summer,

PastThick mist tucked into old hills,
heavy and slumbering;
the tattered clouds gone lavender.
I won't tell you how beautiful it is.
I will only say, I am going home.

I Am EyesI am eyes, that unholy duality.
There are six deer in the dead field
who have survived late fall,
with its plague of men and guns.

I am eyes, turned to the pregnant sky.
There are pockets for hands,
thick wool for feet,
but eyes take the cold head-on.

There is clamor far away. There is cackle and bray.
There is grumble and wine, there is raw meet.
Handed over like suspicion, taken like greed,
like gold from the cocoa-skinned hide-hidden
lesser gods, there disappears my world.
But I know nothing of this. I am sleepy.
I am eyes.

Water For TeaHe was glossy with sweat,
he was streaked brown.
He was unexpected.
Something simmered on the stove-
I turned it down for he was there,
in the half-light by the door;
I think it was water for tea.
The air went thick and fathom blue.
There were fingers in dark curls,
there was wet and bubbling warm,
there was bread with butter for tea.
He grew like mystery, like turgid weather.
I drank him like hope, he left pearls on my lips.
There were fingers in dark curls,
there was water for tea.

JulyThe breeze was a tender thing;
he was glistening and nut brown.
The grass sank before his blade
like resignation.
He cut a wider arc than mine-
I watched his muscles slide
in swing and stride;
grass fell before and to the side.
Two dogs dripped, panting beneath the trees.
Blades shushed with every pass, till all was done.
With the field set low in the heavy afternoon,
we swallowed fear, we raised our eyes.

Act of the GodlessThere used to be the comfort of the words-
bereft, bereft, a woman drips her opalescent tears,
where thin-lipped men look on, away.
As common as cats, lives are.

Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.

Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
necessary.

When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.

A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."

Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.

Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.

Her heart is not a rabbit.

When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
run harder

Crows"Crows," I whisper and she flies,
brown arrow shot
from the bowstring of a word.

water processspirit-sloth and overdone;
wonder-lost and undercome:
still.
you are trenchant, sweet love.

you planted early mornings-
I lay coffee-drunk and thin;
oh,
the stir of your brown hands.

A Textual AnnealingA thousand thousand generations
misinterpreting the lightning,

A tumult of attempts, many
mumblings while we burn - each time
most is lost, some survives.

At the whistle of illusion that awakens,
day drops dream on me. I am
thick with swerve: If there are giants
there is a world they walk on.

And for the final faith
to be an inversion: We are
the electricity lunging toward the sky.

l'hiver.(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )

and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.

listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.

and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.

listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.

and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.

(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space w

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More from *riparii

I spent the day
sleepy in the sweetness of the lilac hedge,
warm under the drape of the damp air
and the stroke of the restless wind.
I spent the day
with my head on the pillow of the green hill,
my eyes on the silver sky;
where the catbird burbled through the blooms,
I spent the stolen day.

Fluid DynamicsI would kiss you 37 times.
You would approach like restless weather,
your taste against my tongue like heavy air,
warm and dense, a coming late-day rain.
There would be low cloud and rising wind.
Just before the downpour,
we would go inside.

Danaus PlexippusThe scent of milkweed bloom is fairy breath
laced through a summer breeze;
you see them when the sun has burnt away the dew-
the magic things at play. They taste and tease,
drift and rise among the pollen-heavy flowers,
orange-streaked black against the lavender and green;
you gaze across the milkweed sea and breathless,
watch your wishes fly, your heart take wing.

Partly CloudyI thought, because it was finally spring,
and the scented woods were brushed with early green,
because the air was delicate as a mother's hand
and the sky a brittle blue,
with clouds ascendant, white and lilac-grey--
because the birds erupted brilliance through the day
while needle-voiced frogs took stitches
in the blanket of the night-
I thought I wouldn't shiver, when you looked my way.

Unreflected LightCome away, barefoot and tawny-limbed,
light as a goose feather spinning in the sun--
young as a story book, sleepy as a sigh;
did it hurt when you took away your hand?
Time murmurs like a stream, a low rocky stream.
Come away, see the settle of the night all around.
Take my hand, we'll walk into the sweep of the unreflected light;
we'll wander through the star-appointed sky,
clamber over clouds while we look to the lamp of the moon.
Gather me along by your side;
the unreflected light, we two keep it at bay.
I had you once in the deep of the night.
You startled me with unfamiliar words--
you spoke of rain, of

a poem that doesn't hurtHe wanted something bright to settle in his hand,
to brush its sunset-colored wings across his cheek.
She gave him white-faced dogs and apples in the fall.
She took him to the winter woods and kissed him there,
making him forget his lust for spring
though he recognized her when she came,
cloaked in speckled furs, a flock of
bubble-throated blackbirds by her side.
Then the solstice with its heavy air
left pollen on his lips and clothes;
he might have seen a new-born butterfly,
if he had turned a milkweed leaf aside.

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Submitted: August 25, 2011
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The Death of Venus

by *riparii, Aug 25, 2011, 5:25:17 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

If there lived in the world a man
as rugged and as strong as I,
who could forbear with me yet go against,
who took to the black woods and the silver hills
mostly unafraid--
who savored salt and the lay of fur
with fingertips of dirt and weather,
whose lips rolled words like smoke, like fog-
I would creep into his arms in the prologue of the night,
air sweet with the scent of new-cut hay,
alive with the nightjar's call.

The Death of Venusby *riparii

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2011-2013 *riparii

If there did.

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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-01-30

In the suggester's words, "The Death of Venus by *riparii is a deceptively short poem, deceptive because although it's short, there's a lot there." The poem is intriguing and well-worth a read and re-read. ( Suggested by =futilitarian and Featured by $wreckling )

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*halcyonshores Jun 6, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Mighty and tender. Amazing writing indeed.

Reply

*riparii Jun 6, 2012

Thank you! My portrait of The Ideal Man.
Great expectations.

Reply

*halcyonshores Jun 7, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

It is the Ideal Man you're talking about

You are most welcome.

Reply

*beeinthebottle May 25, 2012 Writer

This is beautiful every time I read it.

Reply

*riparii May 25, 2012

Thank you Lisa.

Reply

=DailyLitDeviations May 25, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by =DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here: [link] Congratulations on your DD!

Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.

Reply

*Swep-Lovitt May 6, 2012

you are a sensual girl. very fine.

Reply

*riparii May 7, 2012

Thank you. I have my moments. Sometimes
though I just sit in the corner and growl at anyone who comes near.

Reply

`ArtByCher Mar 7, 2012 Traditional Artist

Absolutely brilliant!!

Reply

*riparii Mar 8, 2012

You're a love, Chery, thank you.

Reply