Second blog post

There has already been a handful of words arranged relative to this blog, and, to provide some recent background, I would like to share them.

Below is a collection of sorts of poems, from most recent to earliest. This has been done as a means of not flooding the blog with a collection of entries upon it's creation.  I have other poems but they are not of this genre, if you will. They can be found @ http://allpoetry.com/Skylarking

Lying in the fields:
quilted grasses; summer breeze--
curling toes
tend a broken sandal strap;

torchlight made shadows dance.
On those nights, our flames
                                   fell into embers
                 in awe of the sky.

My stomach growls at the empty
rice bowl. Sunlight burns through the overhead bough
pooling abreast
regrets of my myopic hunger.

As I dragged my silvery skin along the beach
a group of bathers run by. Oh how wondrous
is the salty breeze:
a sultry dance of flailing skirts,
innocent laughter and perverted glances,
  of eyes and fingers
and flickering silhouettes.

It is a welcome day to be hungry
and remember words of poetry
once childishly etched along these beaches.
Dipping my toes over the wharf's edge
there is no bait left to fish with.
Reaching my arms to catch the sky;
an empty cast-
I pressed my back
against an old tree,
and fell asleep.  

The air was pregnant
with the waxing of our breath;
lost in the rising column of your spine.

To be naked under the moon
spilling amongst
the skein of our flesh:

a song of yearning-
a weeping chord sung into the air
as crisp as the night refused
about the grasses trembled.

We stole through the sycamore
with feet bare and palms dirty,
our urges unsexed by a finger of
sunlight and rent away the darkness
coiled in the marrow of your eye

and while the day unborn:
but a flicker licking the muted horizon
peak to peak across your breast--
                        gaze out to the ocean
                        melt into the day. 

Inch by inch
along the chaff
the wind weaves through the curl of my brow.


Shivering hands
for want of touch

you claw at my fingertips:
make moist the bond that does not break-

like a pleading child
upon hearing
prayer bells
amongst the wild rye

                                                and tremble, I tremble.  

These were written from early January to late march. The last of my shorter-longer items (internally contradictory conjunctions... language is awesome).

There will be another one or two more "wrapping up the back catalog" type blog posts.