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Tag Cloud of Limingaars poetica Audio Poem autumn beauty bird birds Buddhism cat clouds cold crow crows death depression desire dogs dream dreams fall fire flash fiction grief haiku haikus heart home kiss life light loneliness lost love love love poem lovers lust moon morning naked nature night nude ocean poem poema poet poetry poets Post by Voice rain Ray Sharp river sadness sex short poem short story skin sky sleep snow song sonnet spring stars star tattoos summer sun sunset tanka tattoo tattoos of stars time trees water wind winter
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Tag Archives: love poem
Persons with synesthesia experience “extra” sensations. The letter T may be navy blue; a sound can taste like pickles. Vladimir Nabakov and his mother were synesthetes; Kandinsky claimed to be; Scriabin and Rimsky-Korsakov disagreed on the colors of given notes … Continue reading
All I have are words — egg shells & feathers, hollow bones, empty nests — to give you, numbingly, the endless iconography, litany/liturgy of love & loss, sad little hellish dreamworld I less inhabit than wear around me tight as … Continue reading
These are notes for a strange poem that wants to be beautiful. It starts, you will not be surprised to learn, with the full moon behind broken backlit clouds, shining through in a pattern that reminds me of the Crab … Continue reading
It was a portentous day the sort of magic like a curse of misshapen noses or the illusion of pigs in profile sculpted in cloud-form when they actually were dogs. Puddles everywhere fallen limbs and the feeling that something happened … Continue reading
I want to be your boulder with holds for your hands and feet, big enough for you to climb, strong enough to support you and tall enough to give you a view beyond the cedar thicket. I want to be … Continue reading
So much I wanted to say and do. We walked the beach to the stilt houses and beneath them wondering if they were starting to lean and what it would take to knock them over and sweep them to sea. … Continue reading
This is how I read — lips mouthing the words, fingers tracing the lines — the atlas of forbidden places. One time we made it there corporeally. Our island rose from the sea.