ten plus zero
ten mouths moving all at once
tandem bellows
opening
closing
opening
closing
i hear nothing but the whoosh of air
feel the push
of sharp consonants
cradling the vowels that chain them
like jet beads
strung on silver
they peck my skin
with the
ravenous fury of hungry crows
my lips lie still
silent painted
fish
resting on the newly polished deck of my face
as my mind
tries to make sense of the worlds
created with each mute explosion of laughter
al fresco
blinding hot July
and we lay fused
soaked in the syrup
of the sun
and you kissed me
up and down the length
of my trembling
your lips the hungry scrape
of desire
your November eyes glinted
dark diamonds
with the promise of release
and i relinquished everything
to you and you to me
and the green grass our bed
we owned each other
the same blood in me in you
no borders limits walls
but flesh and sweat
and the saltscent of what were two
become one
The Art of Lying
It's a solemn task
with which i am charged;
in a way it's like playing God.
I revive memories of the best of times,
create landscapes of futures desired
Cutting and pasting, shaping, erasing,
highlighting, shadowing, texturing,
smoothing, eliminating elements
that jar the senses, remaking what is
into what the world would like to see.
I do whatever is required
to perfect the illusion:
clean up sidewalks,
cast moonbeams on the sea,
reimagine washed-out day
into star sprinkled night,
fill a barren field with flowers,
hang pillowy clouds in a flat glaring sky.
And – most painstaking of all –
I perform unlicensed but expert
plastic surgery,
transforming the ordinary face
into a Galatea, an Adonis,
a vision one can gaze upon day after day
and never tire of admiring.
It's a delicate, radical magic I practice.
I have learned to do it well.
This is my bread and butter:
making the ugly beautiful
one pixel at a time.
the goldilocks man
it's not that i can't be pleased
i just don't expect to be
i've lived long enough
hard enough
rough enough to know
it's better alone than with the wrong one
those who settle for crumbs are those
too lazy to make their own meals
and i'm a hell of a cook
i don't think my specs are exorbitant
but definite they are
i know what i want i know what i don't
and most of all i know what i need
oh there's room for bending in the middle
but at the end of the day
when the costumes come off
and you're lying skin to skin soul to soul
it has to be just right
but fairy tales are make believe
nonsense that never comes true
how many chairs can you sit on
how much porridge can you taste
how many beds can you lie in
looking for that just right
before you say the hell with it
and get a good book a good cat some good wine
and forget about finding the goldilocks man
star command
glow you stars
dammit pock the sky's
slate skin with
silver flame
this is not the time for your
cold indifference
the moon bound
to laws of cosmic
bookkeeping
will not be
ordered you free to shine at
will labour under
no such strict
incumbency in
your army
of billions
surely there must be some rogues
willing to break ranks
step out of
formation and shine
glorious
renegades
defying sequestration
in the bravery
of madness
or the madness of
bravery
so twinkle
twinkle for this scholar of
loneliness you stars
unafraid
as i stand in a
darkness that
offers no
hope holding out my candle
waiting for your flame
RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku (NY Times, 2/2017), Now We Heal: An Anthology of Hope (Wellworth Publishing, 12/2020) in print: 2River, Event, Gargoyle Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Plainsongs, Prairie Schooner, Southword, The Ogham Stone, Twelve Mile Review, York Literary Review among many others, appears in numerous online literary journals. She’s also a winner of the 2021 Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Sonnet Contest, with anthology publication forthcoming.
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