Heart

In dreams, I return to you−or you to me,  revealing
in these reveries, feelings,
         sentiments outside reality, the buried reborn in the surreal; 

         The tenderness, the theme.  We embrace
in lee; this unveiling.  I will wake in dazzlement. In drowsing,
I cannot discern; none of this
is real. 

I must leave you to the night; sentient illusion’s apogee.
        Seeds planted, by day, dug up in decipherment−
        the essence
of unfit desire in dishabille.

The essence
of unfit desire
en dishabille:  seeds planted, by day, dug up in decipherment.
       I must leave you to the night; sentient illusion’s apogee.  

       In drowsing, I cannot discern.  None of this is real,
       this unveiling.  I will wake in dazzlement.
The tenderness
the theme, we
embrace in lee 

outside reality, the buried reborn in the surreal  revealing
          in these reveries, feelings,
sentiments. In dreams,
          I return to you−or you to me.

Margo Roby

Seeking

i saw only what you saw

                                                                       sleek as glass
      what you would have me see

i believed only what you believed
                          what you would have me
believe

and I sewed your shadow on
                                                                     I found myself
faithful girl that i am

if only                  you were
                                         eternally young

                                                                    looking for you
it might be
             believable

But you are
not really here.

You are a figment of your own imagination.

You are a masterpiece,
long labored over,
                                                                 bursting I became
painted layers,
                                                                  softer than plush
oil on canvas.

How,
                                                                                        blood warmed
then, did my water blend
                                                                      touched
so well with thick phantom pigment?
My water mixing, sloshing, as if to fight
for my own color and display.
                                                                                leaving you to your work
My water, sea for you to swim in-
mistaken manatee
                                                                                            taking
My water flowing
                                                                     mystery
like tears that proved my worth.
My water, the pond
                                                                  of discovery
by which you saw your own reflection.

But
   then,
then
when the pond rippled,
                                                               fact and fiction
my water betrayed,
                                                                    forming
muddying, jeering with question,
                                                              sleek like glass
moving maddeningly, moving me.
I could not be still and I broke the mirror
                               and the silence and
so my own
heart
and you left.
                                                              softer than plush
You took your brushes and your cast.
                                                                     mystery
You took my past.
                                                                                           seeking
You left a likeness of my voice
that bubbled up, choking, from the dead.

Scaly and flopping,
gasping for the invisible.

You breathed into me.
You gave me life
                       in story.

Out

I hate that tone,
elastic
expression,
lands where I lack.

When did I become the target?
Exasperating itch?

I hate that tone,
hissing
threat
lands where I'm wet.

I am not who you think I am.
I have been mistook.

You see me as
one afraid to speak,
but I know your voice,
and I know you're weak,

think you can outsmart me,
blurring imagery.

So, go ahead and spin.
So, go ahead and try.
So, go ahead and turn.
So, go ahead and lie.

Your have the numbers
but I have the sum.

So, go ahead, keep talking.
I'll nod my head and smile.
So, go ahead, keep dancing.
I'll waltz with you awhile.
So, go ahead, bow out.
So, go ahead, and pout.
Scream and pout
it out.

Fears and Mirrors

At night,
   the mirror reflects
                       fear,
                       forges images of a more frightening version of
                                    myself.  My
                                           eyes are wide and shadowy, large,
                                                 set against gaunt and grayish face.
                                                     Horror creeps ever nearer until I'm forced
                                                      to look away.

A simple call from nature,
                         once the lights are out, and I am
                                                  again, eleven,
padding down a (suddenly) long,
                                       long hallway, heart
palpitating,
palms sweating,
gust of
ghosts behind me, hot
upon my neck.

The bathroom bestows
      no comfort.
To
turn on the
light or not?

Avoid the mirror- but I
can
   not.

Brief glance...
            and there I am - (she is) in all her gore, garments dripping guilty garnet
                        red.

I see her without really seeing her-
imagine, only, vision.

Hurry, then, back to bed.
Slow
my breath,
close my eyes,
wait for sleep to rescue,
pray for dreamless rest.

Damn you, slumber parties of my youth and your Bloody Mary stories.

Poetry Jam

Light Words
         

Sickness Seeps

The sickness seeps; a contagion,
frantic, searching for invasion,
seeking host to infect with lies.
Poor victim's sanity, the prize,
every answer an evasion

until truth becomes an abrasion,
invention the new equation
for narcissus' sly disguise
and sickness seeps

with words employed in persuasion
till loss of self, mere sensation
and in denial the soul dies.
The poison pleased with the demise
moves on, searching next occasion
and sickness seeps.

dverse

Afternoon

It was afternoon -
burnished light of day
the sun glared, exacerbating
her eyes, already so tired
so exhausted that irritation
came as a defense, to cocoon
Boiling hot
but birds still sounding,
though, as they, too,
were angered. dual chirps,
a scrape, one lurched
down, above her head.
Her nerves, brittle,
shook, but she did not blink
but she tasted blaze of fever
Her feet remained in place,
barnacles attached
to some sinking ship
She swallowed finally,
mouth dry
tongue rough
thoughts not quite as fixed as body.
Steady, her mind reminded,
watching
waiting
The authority,
austere,
commanding,
of logic and survival
prevailing.
A cloud rested,
blocking the bright
and her hard as flint
involuntarily \
relented.
She felt it in her toes,
their relent
The blur
of his face
came into focus
and when his eyes
flickered,
she saw her chance
She spat
drenched
him
with
her
hate.

After

Your voice
is an image now,
stamped -
quite beguiling.

 My
                eyes burn with ideas,
 and I'm stuck
 in
                                                              time flowing so fast
                                                               it deranges.

                                                               I see what's
abandoned, what affliction is avoided,
and I'm contemplating the wisdom in matching all you're cap-
able of.  Deserting, too, the
                       the towering space where once we stayed.
                                                                    Did we leave
anything at
all
behind?  After rumors of ruins,
              and suggestions of deaths, I am fearful of venturing back...
though
the cries of passage
         echo earthward,
 treasure
                            telling, somehow.   There is
a choice in this,
but remembrance falters, and your scarcity gives you away.
Still,
I dig through, clambering up, not sure what I'll find or
                                                                        where I'll end
up.
I am
filtering through the vanished and
unreturned,
pushing
past phantoms, and I am taut of tongue close to
  the precipice
where our love
  hangs in balance.

Write at the Merge