Boozy, smoky voice
Singing a promise
Of a memorable
Night in paradise
Contrast quasi-sincere sound
Another singer
Promising a lifetime and beyond
While voices are not necessarily
Indicative of personality or
Inevitably predictive of the future
The choice of voice
If offered for cultivation
Can be meaningful
Words, promises, to me
Have mainly been lies
But tone, for those attuned,
Is the inner persona
Confessing to the world
Or to those adept at listening.
© 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
Renoir, did you do this on purpose?
Did you relate to a man, looking at a woman
With adoration, while her eyes are averted?
Modesty? Boredom? Too much intensity in his stare?
Wish there was someone to look at me that way
Although, must admit,
You gave him a hat
To shade his eyes
So would it be a surprise
To learn that he is staring
With unbecoming lust
And she is merely embarrassed?
© 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
March day on Clearwater Beach
The wind blew through
Our second date
Marveling how like
Cosmic Twins we are
Until you said
You hate most people
And are glad when they get hurt
Ah, the Universe
That deigns to
Occasionally talk to me
Said, “Run the other way!”
But then you climbed a
Tall palm tree
And slid down
Splintering your hands
I gently picked out the pieces
And thought how attractive
Your boyishness could be
Even though we were forty
It was like being Peter Pan and Wendy
(Yet the voice screamed,
“Ugly! Ugly to hate imperfect humanity!”)
But, I thought,
Maybe his hurt inner child is just venting
And I stayed umpteen years
With four years off for good behavior
(Also known as Clarity of Sanity)
But you won me back
Am I an Issues Junkie?
As some women love rich men
Do I love men rich in problems?
Is the boyishness really part of
The Bad Boy Syndrome and do I
Deep down like that?
I’d hate to think that’s true
But, what else can I do?
So much to learn about ourselves
As we learn about others
© 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
He owned a quality of invisibility
And in order to avoid discussions
Of relationship crop-ups that needed examination
He erased his presence for hours
Never leaving the premises
But gone, nevertheless
Rendering improvement and
Understanding impossible
Although he bragged about
His tinkering abilities
He ignored her broken heart
Battered by rainy nights and days
Rusting in the dust
A heart that only required
A minimum of time and care
© Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Pixabay.com
It was written in the Earth
Under the composted terrain
Carved into the crust
Breaking through to the damp sand
In between the leaves of trees
Branches blowing upward
Allowing letters to fly
***
It was written in the Water
As it bubbled up
Pulsing through the grit, becoming
An underground ocean of crashing waves
Caught in the whirling waterspouts
Vortex connecting sea and sky
The letters fly
***
It was written in the Air
Tossed across the racing clouds
Cottony words appearing
To all who lifted eyes to the skies
Into outer space, visible in the darkest night
Between Corvus and Orion and The Dipper
Letters lying quietly in their orbit
***
It was written in the Fire
Silvery reflection
From the solar system star
Seared into the cavernous craters
Seen in cascading lava
Or in subduction zones of tectonic plates
Cooling into legible letters
***
Names are written
Entwined like moon-struck hearts
An Akashic Record of twin souls
An inseparable destiny
And in dreams that rarely come
I see our names, together
© 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: NASA (Letters in Space)
One magical night
To my delight
Appearing at the mall
A mysterious machine
Orange and green
Sentinel next to a stall
Like Dawn of the Dead
Zombies shambled ahead
Never noticing what we saw
Oranges propped
Put in a dollar, one dropped
And a knife peeled it raw
Out popped a cup
As the squeezer sped up
And juice then cascaded
A pulpy, fresh drink
I didn’t dare blink
What an invention was created!
People began to stare
As they became aware
Of this odd machine of health
My man and I
Did smile and sigh
As we shared new-found wealth
We returned next week
But the future was bleak
The machine was replaced with junk
Bottled, boiled juice
Nutrition’s abuse
My happiness quickly sunk
Through the years I think
About that magical drink
The sweetness that was life
Never will it return
Although I yearn
For that night when passion ran rife…
© 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
Shivering in the silvery light
Permeating the sky at midnight
You sang with hopeful face so bright:
“Ask me after coffee in the light of day
I’m pretty sure I know what I will say
Ask me when the sun no longer fights
The magic of the moon-drenched nights
Ask me when truth-seeking eyes can see
What surely is cherished between you and me
Ask me, oh please, in perfect love
Your words filling the sky above
Ask me and I will answer”
Day of sun, night of moon painted zinc white
Your vivid soul, stunningly alight
Will never alter you for me…
(c) 2014 & 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja) rewritten from male perspective for song using male voice
i.
Conjure me this:
A man who cares
One who dares
To love unconditionally
ii.
Never have I watched a sleeping man
For that would require loving him
iii.
Oh, to watch the perfect crown
Moving up and down
With each breath
Dark eyes shadowed
Behind vibrating lids of REM activity
Please say that you are dreaming of me!
Relaxed face and hair divine
With full lips smiling, enticingly mine
iv.
My fire of the night
Finally found me
As the dark segues into dawn
I would watch him sleep
This beloved man
So desirable to keep
Forever…
© 2015 Viata Maja
The universe is deaf to cries and tears
It has its own agenda
Busily balancing orbiting spheres
Not open to referenda
Space isn’t really a vacuum
It contains gravitational waves
Ignoring life, a silent tomb
Despising my frequent raves
How beautiful is the nighttime sky
The stars bring comfort and hope
Do those enslaved constellations try to defy
Their limitless yet static scope?
You, you are my universe
Yet you never hear my plea
Icy, so stubbornly perverse
You continue to smother me…
© 2015 ViataMaja
The old fire ring of stones
Contains charcoal chips of wood
Barely burning, just a few embers
All paper and kindling carbonized
Oh, how to keep it going when
The forest is bare of naked branches
How to fuel the fire
To heat up one’s life
Is there anything wrong
With wanting a little warmth?
So what if the fire leads nowhere?
Is it so different from reality
That sometimes halts abruptly
Due to whatever he may see and dislike
Whatever way she falls short of expectations?
To me, fantasy is easier to fuel…
© 2015 ViataMaja
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