Shadow Dance



Shadow Dance


He’ll smell of wet leaves when we blend.

Fine trace of lace and lily stem.

Of clumps of clay and pressed Wild Pink;

Droplets of cloud-colored ink.

He’ll recreate the meaning of

A taste of death;

The scent of love.

Like silver slivers of a dream,

He’ll stir in me a shade unseen.

He’ll feel like branches, mica stone.

Like cold, cobwebbed canary bones,

And windswept feathers sometime lost,

Rotting ‘neath moth-eaten moss.

The true fixation of my soul —

To haunt a ghost

Without control.

He’ll smell of a wildflower field.

I’ll breath him in; I will be healed.


- Amy Strom (2014 Wingedmind).

Buried Girl



‘Neath wet soil and gravel she sleeps in a dream, with ghosts to keep her company.

Oblivion’s slumber was sunk like the sea; just deep enough to breach.

Submerged underwater blue afterlife sways, while currents pull laboriously.

Her imprisoned mind clutches familiar needs, and rots her chance to flee.

Between dawn and nightfall her fingertips bleed, and dye the oceans burgundy,

While breakable algae grows thick on her sleeves, she shivers in the deep.

She can’t scream or fight where she’s anchored below, as coldness numbs her hopelessly.

The war between floating and just letting go, leaves her unfit to breathe.

But silence is soothing and rest a relief; could nothing cause her soul to leave?!

The ghosts in the shipyard beginning to scream: it’s here she needs to be.



- Amy Strom, (2012).


H 2 Aeronautics



Under thin moonlight currents I become a bird,
And sail from stream to stream.
Sea foam stars light my way to the tree in the clouds,
Where my thoughts are ever free.
They fly up to the planets that rotate above,
On wings of afterglow.
Frail spider web filters choose which will fall back,
To Earth who hangs below.
I search for the portal carved into the trunk,
Wings pounding as my heart.
But just like before, there isn’t a door,
And my theory falls apart.
So I ride waves of birch bark and try just to smile;
One can’t smile with a beak.
Perch next to an owl on stardust covered branch,
And find out I can’t speak.
While I wait there I try, and I let out a sigh,
Which howls forth as a wail.
It startles me so I fall to Earth below,
Forgetting how to sail.



- Amy Strom, (2013).



Soul of Spine



Fear blooms from her betrodden lungs
In poisonous waves, like Houndstongue
Barbs biting deeply into whomever brushes past
Grave words are etched into her eyes:
Do not attempt to quench my cries!
The closer they get, the deeper the sickness seeps in.


And it’s a lonesome life she lives
Revoking all she ever gives
To save them from that burn of her spewing affliction
Lovers flee fast from her embrace
Though she’d dismiss them with raw haste
Before all else: Safety, in shadow. Her prison.




- Amy Strom, 2013.


Spinning

Spinning


 

  Yarn flower…
Effloresce in the story garden.
Shrivel when your covers run parallel.
Tell us over again when you’re opened,
         of spring,
when the ink river dribbled black for miles.
This bountiful morpheme harvest,
for your hundred-some wings to hold,
should be pollinated, transplanted,reaped, over and again.


- Amy Strom (2013 Wingedmind).


Shadow Dance




He’ll smell of wet leaves when we blend.
Fine trace of lace and lily stem.
Of clumps of clay and pressed Wild Pink;
Droplets of cloud-colored ink.
He’ll recreate the meaning of
A taste of death;
The scent of love.
Like silver slivers of a dream,
He’ll stir in me a shade unseen.

He’ll feel like branches, mica stone.
Like cold, cobwebbed canary bones,
And windswept feathers sometime lost,
Rotting ‘neath moth-eaten moss.
The true fixation of my soul —
To haunt a ghost
Without control.
He’ll smell of a wildflower field.
I’ll breathe him in; I will be healed.





 - Amy Strom, (2013).