July 9 2022
Lying in bed
Mortal enemy of Sleep.
Looping back to you.
Sinking in to them.
Pressing mine open.
You are sitting
Won't you join me?
july 9 2017
I've seen it multiple times; whenever I need to feel the desolation of the human soul and watch isolated heroes fulfill their destiny (with a lean toward 소지섭 films: Rough Cut, A Company Man, Always). I thrill at the intensity each time. I am enthralled by the aloneness of 강패. These solitary hero-criminals always live within their narrow, singular, black-and-white strand of the world's color spectrum.
My love blows like the wind
It has nowhere to go.
Rainfall silent, secretive
Hidden feelings for you,
I, like the sun, am not ready
Yet to appear.
The scent of you remains on my skin
Along with the shadow of your touch
Disintegrating with each passing moment
Your presence calls me back to awareness of you
Through the lightness of my being
The dancing discomposure behind my navel
Fading, reducing, as morning passes unto day
Until all of you is gone away.
Ⓒ Regina McMurray
On that second-hand peach blanket, me and my imagination lie down. The melted memory of you spread your hand on my belly, in marvel at the small growth we had created. In fantasy, I wished for lovely self-torture of pregnancy. Upon startled awakening I swatted the desire away, not truly wanting the long-term result. You were what I really sought, the entirety of you in my possession: your body, your desire, your love. The firmament of ownership, fenced.
In the morning I awaken
To the rhythm of raindrops
On the window,
The tension of your kiss
Contained within each drop.
That watery staccato on glass
Drowns within the sound of sighs
As our bodies match that rhythm.
The melancholy of morning rain
Replaced by scudding moments of pleasure.
© 2019 Regina J McMurray All Rights Reserved
The morning is a dense black-grey immensity
The trees are vague darkenss
Darker than the predawn
Only the crickets dare stir
Even they are subtle
Afraid to yet wake the sun
The silhouettes slowly un-merge
And horse-shapes start to pad across the grass
Tree-shapes un-blur and diverge from greyness
Heat of coffee subsides alongside darkness
As the sky unveils it's lavender-grey dawn
Layer by layer, pink to vanilla, ochre to fuschia
To the Perfect Morning Blue
I freeze into the scent of a flower
Even the hummingbird stops to observe.
The sails of a dragonfly flap nearby
Lumbering for lift like a Chinese junk rig
Squared black wings, chalked white body
Drawing my gaze away from the stilled bird
Yet the perfume won't let me free
I am beckoned to the next flower
As Melusine sang to beguiled sailors.
I want to marry a motorcycle, and have a love affair with a Jeep.
I want to curse the cliff I climb, and fall into the embrace of a belay.
I want to moan of the pain in my legs, as I course the mountain trek.
I want to kiss ridges of the deep, and die in the passion of rising air bubbles.
I want to pedal harder, as the wind caresses my skin.
I want to run slow and long, as the horizon beckons me on.
I want the wind and the ocean and the mountains to break my heart wide open.
As she walked into the room
Feet gliding over wood
I can feel the coolness of the boards
I scent the whiff of stale air
Windows unopened for long periods
As her skirt brushes by the bookcase
I feel the breeze of it on my skin
And then the cozy roughness of rug
While kneeling on fuzzy carpet ensconcing a small table
Words rush out of her mind
Splashing page after page
I feel the ink smear onto my palm, sticky
Another blow-breeze flutters my hair
As she places her writing-book to the side
And then as her thoughts continue
Circular about the room, roving with her eyes
I can see them, too
Curling cursives in the air
As she seeks the next formulation of emotion
And that blow-breeze of emotion
Flows right through me
And the air becomes still again as the windows close
And the thoughts stop
And the writing ends
The heat of creation departs
And once again, the wood floor is cool,
The cardboard smell of emptiness returns
The rooms is closed
And my mind moves on to its next task
Though it feels stale and darkened in this room.
"Like" this post if you know how to pronounce "gunwhale".
Head or halyard.
Abaft or Abeam.
Focs'l or forecastle.
Gotchur sea legs yet?
I miss yawing.
I know it sounds crazy,
but this storm makes me miss 'cane season in the islands.
Banana trees and tamarind trees and flamboyant trees
whipping, whipping, whipping with 30 knot gusts,
the pour of water down the gutters and spouts,
running new trenches down the mountains,
spattering on high ocean waves,
the cozy comfort of feeling safe and warm inside,
the salty air diminished by clear rain drops,
all still warm, all still warm inside,
until thunder clamors overhead
to scare the bejesus out me and the spotted dog.
OF COURSE I am the sign of the MONKEY!! What else could I possibly be??
The Monkey God is officially dating again in the West again.
The Monkey God will not make same mistakes on the Journey to the West.
The Monkey God will make new mistakes that involve fun rather than being stuck in a cave for 500 years!
The Monkey God evolved from a troublesome, defiant fool to a wise and humble servant.
But The Monkey God is still tricksy.
Feb 27, 2017
I second this emotion
I feel this notion
I will gulp down this potion
My life matches the motion
My head is in a vice;
my eyeballs and teeth hurt so much that I want to grind one with the other, but end up squeezing and scrunching and squirming instead.
I lie here in time frozen; melting, watching clouds pass and cover the moon, like opportunities scudding past.
I wait for the clouds to slow or stop, for them to knock on the moon's door, offering possibilities. I wait in vain as she sinks lower in the sky; willing her to grab one and choose.
So many pass, so quickly. Then her light is finally swallowed by the bleak, winter clouds. Perhaps they weren't opportunities after all.
Now I lie in full dark.
The view from my window morphs to the camera perspective of a supernatural werewolf film: intriguing and terrorizing, smoke-roiled and viscous, both at once.
I remain, waiting for dawn.
"Awake at 2 AM with flu"
Copyright 2017 GJM
Melancholia calls from within the crowd
Two faced abstractions diverts from solitude
Therein lies the rub
Alone in the cell, a crowd
Each animus of nature has its own character
In this play
This circle divides yet offers no protection
A shadow, a ring, darkness all round
I look into this light
Bathed in solitude
There is that fire, burning with alacrity. Quick!
It will consume.
The cabin, not far from the cliff, but over it a freedom of water, roils below.
Do you jump?
I built this place with mine own hands. I watch it burn.
All the food I eat, it has grown beneath my feet. The flesh I consume, wrought with mine own hands. Burned also, but in a smaller fire.
That smaller fire has kept me warm. Offered me safety within mine own abode. There am I, again, in this cabin, in this wood, near this cliff, above this water.
It is my piece. It is my peace.
My solitude begins there.
My solitude. It ends there.
I am wont to return, though it is only in my own mind.
I walked outside
To talk to the wind
She howled her warning
And blew me back
Away from the world.
"It's safer inside."
Our Cardinals sing-song outside
Under the burden of hard rain
Makes our river run its marathon
No one minds the cacophony of water above and below
Spring is melancholy today
Appreciating the rain tomorrow
I rather enjoy this noise
Hot tropical sun burning away painful memories,
Warm ocean waters washing away the remainder,
Cool breeze off the sea renewing and refreshing...
Keeping my heart open and senses optimistic.
I am letting go of Craig L. ...still, slowly...
But the move has helped tremendously!