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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
Love on the Vine Posted on September 12, 2012 by Ray Sharp Extraordinary how warm it is tonight, a hot wind rattling the milkweed pods. It is poetry time, the words are blowing through me in late summer, late at night. … Continue reading
An all-knowing god would see and hear every time I was thinking of you, And an omnipresent god would inhabit me, in, out, in, out, with every ragged breath, But there is no god for us, just the chaotic dispersion … Continue reading
Mostly now we act like ghost crabs, nocturnal, changing color with the tides, communicating with waves and gestures, you in harmonious symmetry and I with my oversized man-claw, monstrous. When I feed, moving my normal claw from sand to mouth, … Continue reading
Your hands were the tools of my doing and undoing. Articulate thumbs met finger tips in signs of approbation or reproach. Things that were grasped or not. Hammers that pound in nails and claw them out. Shovels that dig holes … Continue reading
There are too many moonless nights on account of the clouds, nights when nothing is illuminated, when a poet stumbles blind. My heart is not a lantern. It is a hard, dark place, a burned-out star, dense, dull-eyed, stealing fire. … Continue reading
Twice Burned Last night I was burned twice, once by one who cares too little and once by one who cares too much. Some nights I would light matches to stay warm, if only someone would cup two hands around … Continue reading
There are old ghosts whispering among themselves in the spaces between us. Rumors and mumblings and fragmented phrases carried on radio static. Mudsplattered sheets entangled with no eye holes through which to see a way clear.