A few etcetera poems

A sonnet:

Sommeil
Rose fades to velvet midnight, streaked with cloud
Silently burning, our star retreats west
Your eyes dilate at encroaching night’s shroud
The world soundless, the pulse paused in my chest
A sudden cease of rushing, throbbing life
We exchange our earth for a place of rest
Melt and meld; air uncut by quiet knife
Mother Moon holds us dear in her embrace
We draw close together, forget all strife
Children beneath stars and Luna’s good grace
Your body my cradle, and mine for you
Our rhythm, our breath, our dreams to erase
Error of noise, of day, of what to do
Serenity beneath velvety blue


The following is a prompt piece written based on a piece by photographer, Suza Scalora.

Talisman of the Unprotected

A twinkle of light guides me to her, fragments of a fallen star dusting our earth,
Imaginary aeroplane has flown overhead, golden powder grated and released
Resting like a chemical on the tropical growth.
A shimmering sheen of luminescence glows from within her,
So fragile, neonate in her vulnerability,
Close enough to touch, the very idea an evil.
Her butterfly wings pulse the rhythm of her hummingbird heart,
And I remember what was said about the delicacy
Of crosshatching interconnectedness
A membranous growth of gossamer
The fragile wing and its twitching beat.
She sleeps, curled inside a cocoon of dream,
Her face a child’s, her folded hands a pillow in prayer,
It is April 17th, 7:00 pm.
Among the volcanoes, blushing hibiscus, emerald overgrowth, and honey creeper song,
She has made a nest of the ground, beads of light surrounding her, exposing her,
A child locked in sleep.
A blanket of petals outline her shape, she rests in a bed of ferns,
A child, a nymph, a goddess, an echo of witchcraft, crone, mother, and maiden…
The sacral cup of the feminine, a druidic icon, incomprehensible in her malleability,
Her purpose like clay molded into the necessary niche.
A cinnamon-stick finger wrapped in blueberry velvet hair, bronzed face and limbs,
Body wrapped in angel lace and mermaid silk.
She is serene and surreal, and I wonder if I too am dreaming.
I am reminded of Miranda’s epiphany, to see such sweetness in life.
A vision, and rightly named so, daughter of sweet rain, purple sunset, of firefly flight
This child of lavender, of dream, drowses defenseless at dusk.
Does she know what she is, her eyes relaxed shut, her breath inaudible,
Hushed slumber beneath moonlight, fragrant earth and creature smells, the air warm…
Does she know what she means, to the world, to me? Not now, not here, here in the grasp of the King of Dreams. Afraid, but still I am drawn to her.
When she sleeps, I dream with her, unguarded, unprotected. She is trust incarnate,
Challenge to choice, she is my testament.
She, talisman of the unprotected, is my talisman.
With her I have found resolve, my understanding.
A being of naïve innocence is a being unprotected,
At the mercy of the world, her core is a light, a warm organ of hope, its pulse a flicker.


untitled
The feeling is a quirk, one idiosyncrasy of many
Which courses in the same vein as the rest
Like my attraction to gasoline fragrances
And I mimic the babinski reflex and coo
It exists in my irrational senses
Remembering the symptom of hypersensitivity
To the physical realm
The feeling is an auditory one, kind of
It is a condition
Evoked between hush and murmur
With an emphasis on the whisper
Commonly occurring during day commutes
Amidst the studious librarians and their ilk
At homes left behind
But only during times of sunlight and warming
The muteness of hazy days
Volume as a pattern, it will not build without breath
Quiet snores from a corner or a girl with clogged nose
The breathing of the close-to-sleeping mouth
Nature noises, machine sound, all are muffled
A faint laugh tickles at my inside
When the conditions are met,
It erupts within me
Warm and unexplained arousal
I lower my eyelids, suddenly heavy
My lips part slightly in the pleasure of it
This internal feeling of sound and warmth
Sweet sleep brushes her lips over my eyes,
And I refuse the teasing; shake my hair like a stubborn child
The only key to the experience is consciousness, I know this
How unfortunate then, the feeling never lasts beyond the hush
And the hush will never stay
Though I wish it would

Tangent 1

I am, in fact, not real.
Scratch that.
I am, in fact, you.
That’ll do.
I am, in fact, you
Just as you are, in fact, me

The you that is I is the I that is you
A terribly confusing conundrum of collaboration
And I instead believe that we are just we
And letting that being that will do just fine

The concept of I am you is a frightening one
It is the stuff obsession is made of
And obsession is not we
And we are not it

Yet I wonder which is worse
You as I as you as me
Or the concept of possession

Once a man told me that I was his
And I wondered at this, because how
Could I be his when I was clearly my own
Or at the very least a commodity of my country
Because really now, who is actually their own

I never wanted to own a man, and I don’t think I ever shall
Just as I will never own a land because no one can own a land
The Indians knew this and this is why they were savage
They didn’t get it and neither do I

Perhaps I am uncivilized
Perhaps I speak to trees

I may yet be an Indian Princess.

Once
When I was a child
I thought my father was black
And I announced this to my kindergarten class

He is not black
But I may yet be an Indian Princess.

(alll poems copyright Brittni Aislinn Reilly)