Six Poems
by Taunja Thomson

 

Levitating Over (In Hell There Is No)

 

In hell there is no yellow moon
eclipsing the ends of country roads.

 

In hell the yellow moon
does not remind you
of a wolf’s eye
a poppy petal
a topaz.

 

In hell you do not breathe in
edge-of-woods honeysuckle  
rain-drenched bark
snowy wind.

 

In hell you don’t stand
on the rocks of a river
amazed at the moon
levitating over
black trees.

 

 

 

 

 

Only Being Two

 

I dreamt we sat on a pew of rosewood
that was too long for just the two of us;

 

the stained glass window brought out
the wood’s red and threw it

 

back through the saints’ cloak
and up to the sky.

 

Effortlessly we followed still seated
on the rosewood pew:

 

over stumps and the tops of trees
brown and gold and moss

 

sharp like daggers and feathery like ferns.
A valley revealed itself to us

 

complete with waterfall and birdsong
soft mist rising from wet grass

 

and the loneliness we were told
to feel for only being two

 

simply could not be
outside of stale walls

 

and windows that bite with hard colors
that throw down judgment upon the heads

 

of those who follow with bent backs.
We choose to soar without wings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

satori

 

shreds of self
washed away, burned
away, absorbed by roots
of trees--nothing
left to rust or spoil
or betray

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This apex is ours--

 

upon an ashy settee
they agree on silos
spewing missiles
            how many
            when
            but not why

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portrait of Solitary Hazel:  Chuck

 

Dark hair looms
over one eye—
the other
hazel.
Body lean   unsure
movements suggesting
running away
or the desire to.
Slim wrists decorated
with yarn.
Flip of head
long fingers sweep
tresses:
brief glimpse
of other eye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sweeter Garden

 

Come teasing   begging

thin bending

old desperate river.

Come, black taking  

tearing brightest pardons

from my lips

over whispering

minutes—fast breathing

satin answer.

 

Limbs:

            flowers

            shedding

            sensation

            over broken

            hours

            tongue flowing

            softly.

 

Dancer: 

            sweeter garden

            unreason   fleeting

            mandolin turning fire—

                                                come to bed.

 

 

 

 

 

~Found poem from Jethro Tull’s “Black Satin Dancer”

 

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.