I am sending you a box made of rainbow's
light shaped after my heart and inside you will find dried freesia
flowers, a barefoot gypsy girl with silver bells around her ankles,
a piece of silk cloth, of flowery design (to dress her, or maybe not),
a pebble from the crystal pond and one blade of grass from its shore.
A tambourine for merry music, and my voice to sing to you. My palms to
feed you honey and wine, fresh baked bread and pieces of cheese, one
apple and two oranges. Red lipstick to write a poem for you on the cloud,
my kiss scenting of mint, butterflies to build you a waterfall of love,
a garden full of pansies and lilacs, violets and wild strawberries,
necklaces of dew and a dove with her soft amorous coo. And a lock of
my hair, tied with our dreams.
Wooden wings keeping the grey sky framed within square
patches of wet glass. Evening. The silence following the
rain brings me the smell of salt and whispering sea voices
with a first star's light. Eyes. At the edge of view I
saw you sitting, then your feet moving on the red carpet.
With you I rolled under the blanket.
the mind drifts to trace the wild plum blossom’s scent and thoughts
ramble between wild never severed branches I come with the sweet
springtime air to set on your palm white petals and promised kisses
with the sweetness of ripe indigo fruit.
ARTELLA'S POETRY GARDENS OF FAME
for July/August, 2008
I was trying to write you a poem,
to impress you with my words.
Along the river's foaming crest
dancing sparklets lay imprisoned
in the droplets,
waves dandling them like a mother’s arms.
Fractured light from sky and clouds
crawled on the strand
touching it with broken fingers...
What are you doing?
I am writing you a poem. About me?
No, it is about a river. And about a girl. Oh, I thought it might have been a love poem.
But, it is a love poem. I can't see...
There was a girl on the shore, singing songs of desire
drawing hearts and writing her lover's name on the sand,
while the wind was following her voice like a choir,
barefoot she was standing on the river’s strand.
She was feeding ducks and frogs and fish
thinking only about the time when she will meet him,
her eyes gleaming, in her heart a wish...
the sun floating over the water like a gold burning Seraphim.
At night, warm sand was her pillow,
with morning her soles kissed by the river's billow...
While stretching her arms to hail the morning sun
she found on her finger a ring made of wet river's spear,
she was licking her lips before breakfast,
her teeth sunk deep in a fresh pear...
Pear? Where does the pear come from?
And where is this river now?
This poem is not consistent to your promise...
But it is. Everything is at the same place.
At the beginning and at the end of the poem. And where is love?
At the same place. At the beginning and after the end of my life. Wait... wait... you are teasing me, how to read your poem if it is
From the beginning to the end of my love.
I count the days by newborn suns
and a fading star,
wild flowers bloom, and leaves of shady shine,
old thirst for love turns to a blaze in my life's jar.
Your orchard trees my bed, my life, my spine,
my sprouting wreath you'll never merge to tar,
my fingers climb and twine to it as growing vine.
I count the seasons by the ripe fruits you gave me,
from early springtime cherries to autumn apple pie,
your touches mended the debris of a broken key.
Bright rainbows take the place of a once grey sky,
wind fills the sails of vessels floating to the open sea.
I count my life by breaths I found inside your age,
and ticks of hearts, the sounds of life we freely share,
the scents of herbs, of rosemary and thyme and sage.
And many secrets of yore, to us so dear and rare
we laid together in the book, the place of a sacred page
tied up with bows of ribbons red to words of love and flare.