Shells~

Under the city

life drips in a flex of colors

a Japanese fan in broad sweeps

undulates the coy ringlets pinned against geisha  temples

while a temple in a maharaja’s dream inclines a column toward the line

between my brows

eyes in slit

studying

hieroglyphics trace a path up a griffin’s spine;

I am watching

watching closely now

listening even closer

for the rush inside a conch shell

while a man and woman apply pressure to the air

her umbrella of lace opened

against a flood of butterflies off course

raining

bodies hatch from an idea

flexible

a porcelain doll against my checkerboard apron

I am baking a world of curves

hands in ruddy clay

scoop a terrace with a view into the kiln

forgetting the girl bent over the side of the trellis

it all burns

takes on new shapes

 

My ID in laminate

I surface

fingerprints on the screen

I’ve clocked in

searching for my killer

soft soled shoes leaving the imprint of myths across uninspiring tiles

and there

above the city

life surges in mercury

encases me at his mercy

his dreams in doe sinew dip under

over

sewing a new hyde into my hips;

he will do unimaginable things to the shell

not understanding that I have learned

that my carapace

is not me

and I think I may have

just grown up a little bit

in this bay

on this mystic island

where under is above

and everything above leaves its dreams

in silhouettes on the shore

for girls like me

to collect in blue jean pockets

on the slide back down

to underland

 

 

 

copyright:2010vssmd/amusemusepress

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Reviews

[SpokenWord]

Beautiful is your pen and amazing is the ink that you scroll wonderful stories and adventures for all to adore. I had just tried to find your page, was it yesterday and it said it was closed. To my surprise this morning here I find your words to make me smile and appreciate your talents. Wonderful is creative muse!

[Jouni Sakari]

:) I am so happy that you have already published . Blessings . J-S.

[Chris Smith Welshpoetcs]

Bless you for sharing this beautiful poem my friend.

[Tarik]

your stories and ideas lure me into a world of mystery and love..thanks selene for being there for us

[Matthew Smith]

Your writing is very imaginative and the imagery is powerful. I would use the word symbolism in place of imagery, but in so saying, I would have to understand the symbolism. One doesn't need to understand anything in some forms of art, and this is just that, because the words (so to speak) speak for themselves. An image wrapped in an image, wrapped in an image.

[Sweet & Tender Hooligan]

A beautiful use of words and imagery. It makes me want to disappear into your poem and to read it over and over and to live inside of it.

[Larry Dyson]

yes you have grown..and hurt always precedes growing and the resultant works are jewels!

[An owl on the moon]

Each line you create is like a photograph and they are laid out, image by image, until the whole scene unfolds in a depth of emotion and vision. Deeply moving.

[Pax Analog]

Well, darlin', you stimulate mega-associations, as always.

Your gold standard is consistently original surrealization of intuitive and informed mythic sensibility.

Then once that word painting has worked its magic ride, I brood on frames.

Still the libido seems slung down in conflict w/heart, brains, and seamlessness. Your home stretch of "carapace violator/killer" topsy-turvys a metaphysical crime drama appropriately. "My ID in laminate/I surface/fingerprints on the screen/I’ve clocked in/searching for my killer/soft soled shoes leaving the imprint of myths across uninspiring tiles" -- love that.

Apparently, grokking chemical/alchemical passion joystick directives is the hardest thing for humans to win the spirit regarding. We need one another to be God, I suppose, and then crashing and burning follows the disjunction between mojo and meaning. Actually, I think we CAN be God to one another, but it's a developmental orientation, the paradox of tantra's transcendence, integrally grounded.

"I am not the carapace" is true enough Gnostically -- and yet said carapace opens to infinity and would be considered nonexistent by a radically spacious Consciousness, Nondual.

So I'm moving toward the subtlety of freedom from form via full tantric embrace. Because sex and soul-mind separated is incomplete.

The kink of ironic transgressions spices the adaptive paradox. Nothing is quite as it appears to be. Obliged to see, affirm, yield all at once, we humans play out the Rubik's cube combinations in search of gyro simplicity. . .

"life surges in mercury/encases me at his mercy/his dreams in doe sinew dip under/over/sewing a new hyde into my hips;/he will do unimaginable things to the shell" -- strange, because enticing yet detached.

Concealed in the carapace is the fulfillment of free fire too. Because nothing is separate. Even the body is multi-subtle sheathed when the hard shell returns to the elements.

[Champagne]

You have painted a picture that is at the same time desolate and hopeful. You have merged melancholy with joy. You words suggest a dreamland and the beckoning of a wonderful world that is so within our grasp and yet so remote.

[.]

we all have to protect ourselves..when we are wounded we close our shell and heal..better knowing for next time..your verse is on another plain..as you guide your reader into a wonderment of imagery...delightful as always