(no subject)
Untitled 1
I cannot sleep these nights
my pillow's wed and the bed
is full of stained imagination.
A raining downpour soaks the sheets
of clouds,and it feels likes
months since mouths touched, or never.
Forever is ever the case in
places where the heart looms,
but the bloom is so much sweeter
in the slowness of necter falling
from you, falling through fingers
in a fruitless escape to escape
the desire to be captured, adored
and dealt rapture so blissful,
more beautiful than the moon
you are.
Untitled 2
What holds this world has me
bound in shape, sight, physical
sound of heart strings strummed
by your voice. Of course the
choice is given for a waxen
block to block out the waves
that soothe my soul without
sanity. My humanity speaks
and staves off the mortal time,
haulting every mortals rhyme
just so I can be with you. Think
it true or not, I did not plot
the leaps and vaults in my blood
that sings of the blossom's songs
and binding rings that encircle
we two when the tool of my vision
sides with division over the
enigma that is you. Not a clue
in my hat, nor a doubt in my mind
raises the fog of the quest to find
what it all means. And as the saying
goes, not all is as it seems.
Drive Away the Blue Sky
Ashley Carmichael
December 22, 2006
The muse is amused by the
flame on the wall, and has inspired
this one to write of tall trees
swaying in the charged breeze.
The sun has been cut to the knees
By the thunder cloud’s roll. The
bold, brilliant sky is covered and
the birds fly for cover at the first
clear drop of rain. It starts on my
window pain and slides down as would
a joyous tear. The first crackle of lightning
should inspire fear inside me, but all
is held at bay by the warm body beside me,
hands that play with my hair, a fuzzy cheek
that nuzzles my cheek. Fingers that trace
me with extra care as the bleak weather
sings a beautiful tune. A week could pass,
and it might escape my notice, the moon
could come at last and it might escape my focus
if the sound of the rain still speaks and
we may not speak at all.
But perhaps our mouths might still move.
Come A Sunday Afternoon
Ashley Carmichael
December 27, 2006
Butterflies in flight, all within
a captured space might be an
indication of laced anticipation,
waiting in this grounded station
with unfounded worry and trepidation.
A flurry of feelings, dealings and
matters of the heart start to impede
rational thought, and it’s often that
I get caught in a day dream. A plot
or a scheme, you might wonder but
my ponders are as clueless as thunder
on a sunny day as to why I may feel
this way, as though something is
to happen and happen soon, in
half a cycle of the moon.
A tune thrums through my system
in flutters, bursting upwards and
comes rushing to my middle, into
my core, like a piper with a fiddle
who is playing more than just your
ordinary melody, compelling me
towards an unknown goal. Shall I
fold or shall I wait, is the hand dealt
in a state fit to barter and bide my time?
Is it smarter to hide that I’m waiting,
anticipating some longed for thing,
a meeting of sorts? Of course, you
could be the source of this nervous
reckoning that’s beckoning me forward
blindly, kindly pushing me in a pleasurable
direction. Affection is the cure, you see,
and it is an absolute surety that I await
stirring fate of finally seeing you.
I cannot sleep these nights
my pillow's wed and the bed
is full of stained imagination.
A raining downpour soaks the sheets
of clouds,and it feels likes
months since mouths touched, or never.
Forever is ever the case in
places where the heart looms,
but the bloom is so much sweeter
in the slowness of necter falling
from you, falling through fingers
in a fruitless escape to escape
the desire to be captured, adored
and dealt rapture so blissful,
more beautiful than the moon
you are.
Untitled 2
What holds this world has me
bound in shape, sight, physical
sound of heart strings strummed
by your voice. Of course the
choice is given for a waxen
block to block out the waves
that soothe my soul without
sanity. My humanity speaks
and staves off the mortal time,
haulting every mortals rhyme
just so I can be with you. Think
it true or not, I did not plot
the leaps and vaults in my blood
that sings of the blossom's songs
and binding rings that encircle
we two when the tool of my vision
sides with division over the
enigma that is you. Not a clue
in my hat, nor a doubt in my mind
raises the fog of the quest to find
what it all means. And as the saying
goes, not all is as it seems.
Drive Away the Blue Sky
Ashley Carmichael
December 22, 2006
The muse is amused by the
flame on the wall, and has inspired
this one to write of tall trees
swaying in the charged breeze.
The sun has been cut to the knees
By the thunder cloud’s roll. The
bold, brilliant sky is covered and
the birds fly for cover at the first
clear drop of rain. It starts on my
window pain and slides down as would
a joyous tear. The first crackle of lightning
should inspire fear inside me, but all
is held at bay by the warm body beside me,
hands that play with my hair, a fuzzy cheek
that nuzzles my cheek. Fingers that trace
me with extra care as the bleak weather
sings a beautiful tune. A week could pass,
and it might escape my notice, the moon
could come at last and it might escape my focus
if the sound of the rain still speaks and
we may not speak at all.
But perhaps our mouths might still move.
Come A Sunday Afternoon
Ashley Carmichael
December 27, 2006
Butterflies in flight, all within
a captured space might be an
indication of laced anticipation,
waiting in this grounded station
with unfounded worry and trepidation.
A flurry of feelings, dealings and
matters of the heart start to impede
rational thought, and it’s often that
I get caught in a day dream. A plot
or a scheme, you might wonder but
my ponders are as clueless as thunder
on a sunny day as to why I may feel
this way, as though something is
to happen and happen soon, in
half a cycle of the moon.
A tune thrums through my system
in flutters, bursting upwards and
comes rushing to my middle, into
my core, like a piper with a fiddle
who is playing more than just your
ordinary melody, compelling me
towards an unknown goal. Shall I
fold or shall I wait, is the hand dealt
in a state fit to barter and bide my time?
Is it smarter to hide that I’m waiting,
anticipating some longed for thing,
a meeting of sorts? Of course, you
could be the source of this nervous
reckoning that’s beckoning me forward
blindly, kindly pushing me in a pleasurable
direction. Affection is the cure, you see,
and it is an absolute surety that I await
stirring fate of finally seeing you.