The Perfect Game

hours I spent with my cheek against your spirit smoothing the walls of a private utopia a summer of thought sweet like balloons of sugar mouthful of music sometimes a note that matched my heart claiming me with words like sacred and heat now back from the platform in his throat where I sat waiting

desire

I wriggle surreptitiously to discourage and squash but despite Buddhist ideals and deep Catholic guilt it soon becomes apparent   it’s not going to stop http://www.arnabaartz.com.au http://www.artofkundalini.com http://www.kidsintouch.com.au

words

  bright words flat against a dark wall I close my eyes the words spring and my soul needles through weaving an exit diamond thoughts hang on cotton string my button pushed tenderly, brings breath… skin stretches my ladder unravels to earth I am a rain of little pebbles like drops in the sea touching to form

Part 2. Death of A Poet ~ Mary Anne Baartz

Her words remain in the shadows. That is the plan but she’s forgotten or has never consciously known, so determined to get it right. It’s a fight to the death. She papers her walls with rejection slips. Pouncing on the occasional publication, her fury slobbers over those words already on the page drenching them in

Words Like Grass

Blades. Words. Tall and tangled seeming free to float, gesticulate and cut! THEN in thoughtless rushing, words like grass push together, leave air wet form a tributary or tendril (with sex or perfume) confuse the mind, flicker the eye and wrap around my finger to create a memory

Running Water

    The River is wanton, it speaks to me and I listen. Restless creature I AM a mossy rock by this river. It’s earthy fragrance entices me, I stand quiet and let it touch my body. I put my face close so I can feel it’s voice in my mouth and on my lips.