dreams, memories

my memories ride the brush into my bowl of paint
and are dipped in alizarin crimson and pthallo green.
my emotions emerge,
rotund, corpulent and juicy,
like a well-stewed fruit,
swollen and redolent,
and carrying the fragrance of artistry.
the brush strokes may be ample, broad
or teeny and flimsy.



the canvas is ready,
and like a body waiting for a lover's caress,
it seems to quiver, shake and shiver
and arch to meet the brush.

i am telling my stories
that float through my memory
like the organza sheers at my windows.
blue sky and white curtains
that catch the golden sun of my mornings
on shiny threads
and send it crackling through my dark empty room like sparks.

the day ahead is long and cold
and for the moment I lie under the sheets that are still warm
despite my body's nightlong ache for an embrace.



the curtains sail into the room on a breeze
and the blue of the sky bleeds into the depth of brown of my room
and the curtains fly and the sheets turn cold
and the icy winds of the day soak into the pores of my skin
and impregnates me with desire
for a moment of bliss, ecstasy and utter pleasure.

i don't write of my dreams, I have bad dreams.
i lie back in bed and and watch the curtains billow
white into the blue world.

underwater i am light,
in the sky I can flutter,
in this cocoon of my bed, i am a chrysalis.

and my canvass rests. . .
at least for now.