Sunday, November 2, 2014

Poppy



I save the red nostalgic kiss.

After the longest moment of silence,
press the petals to my lips.

I have kept the faith, knowing I would love
and be loved, intimately

remember how November lies,
cenotaph on the other side of the Atlantic.

I am like a ghost who signals,
hears the same blood-beat in my ear;

chance shrapnel delivers
the opiate churning up of earth.

This late-flowering lust.



tk/November 2014


Excellent read by R.A.D. Stainforth...love the rare smile...





20 comments:

  1. Excellent interpretation and reading.

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  2. You are a linguistic wizard. Pure word magic!

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  3. What a saucy ending! Love this part: "chance shrapnel delivers
    the opiate churning"

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  4. Ah, the blood-beat that we all know. Fine writing...

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  5. The aftermath of war situations death generally follows. Great word craft Tess!

    Hank

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  6. A hint of lust shimmers under November skies you've profoundly painted between the lines where November lies. Stunning!

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  7. Oh the force of love and passion stirred up at the wake of war. This is lovely Tess.

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  8. During wars people still fall in love. Wonderful Tess! Hugs!

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  9. Gorgeous...your writing is so lush.

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  10. Your works are always so fantastic!

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  11. Thanks for coming by Tess...I like your evocative take on the prompt

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  12. Nice; remembrance, it's what makes us uniquely human.

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Inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.
― O. Henry (and me)