Lips...and eyes...55 words

   Handsome hands  
encircled the cup -
then pushed back his 
tweed hat,
revealing 
thick salt and peppery 
brows;
his sculpted lips 
sipped coffee, 
moistening his silver mustache -
 when "fine lovemaking" 
came to mind
His jaw tightened -
 my body 
flushed 
creamy crimson
Our eyes locked, 
conveying 
"soul mate";
I knew I was going to 
marry him
someday

Today we are writing 55 words, no more no less                               

        

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

lune portals..

Over at

dversepoets.com today Sam Peralta leads us in embracing the American haiku form, lunes, either the 5-3-5 syllabic variation or the 3-5-3 word lune;  mine is still another variation, a 5-3-5 word form..

January's moon tips gibbous,
draws longer shadows,
brightens cream colored stepping stones.

February's lunar storms heat up
with timeless love
melting hearts and warming bodies

March's moonlight lends passionate edge
April's moon pines
exposing cascading flowers in May

Butterflies swarm in June's lunar
light, spreading 
wider as summer moves on

July and August moons beckon, 
highlighting the Irish moss,
skirt and skip between branches.

Rustles in wind signal September
her moon sets
on wedding nuptials and vows

October's and November's hunting and harvest moons send ardor through men's veins,

yet they venture not far from home and hearth.

December's moon is your smile

caressing my cheek, for a calendar complete,

God's personal design for my lunar cycle




               

Fernando Pessoa...a literary allusion to...

Over at Meeting the Bar and  dversepoets.com  we are challenged to write in the form of literary allusion, spotlighting or referencing, answering back or emulating a well known poet's work, artist, or other literary work.  I chose Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa for his existentialist style of writing which I admire.  His prose and poetry tell of his perennial unrest and search for meaning in life.  The top quotes and short poem are my models for the poem below.

1888 - 1935

“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddle strings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.” 
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet


“Being tired of all illusions and of everything about illusions – the loss of illusions, the uselessness of having them, the prefatigue of having to have them in order to lose them, the sadness of having had them, the intellectual shame of having had them knowing that they would have to end this way.” 
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

"I'm both in the midst of life and observing it from where I stand.  I am like a playing card that belongs to an ancient and unknown suit, the only remnant of a lost pack.  I have become more image than me; I return to my own self taking myself out of existence, using my soul as ink."

_ F. Pessoa

I see boats moving on the sea.

Their sails, like wings of what I see,

Bring me a vague inner desire to be

Who I was without knowing what it was.

So all recalls my home self, and, because

It recalls that, what I am aches in me

                                                 by Fernando Pessoa ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I lay down my compass by the sea
footprints left, those gone before me

Alone is what I am used to, you see 

This night I'll find stars to catch and shine

put them in my pocket for Amaranthine

wishing the Milky Way reach and take me

                                                   by klr

                                                                    

 klr in response to F. P. statements

My thoughts: His words, "I sought life's meaning in all the wrong places,"....strikes a chord with me.  I like this...and certainly, life's meaning is often wrought in strife and constant pain.  Regardless of what story this man told, the trick was to not call anyone's bluff I guess....was he really so sad?  His fear that "he had not accomplished enough" or he "left a mark of nothingness" sounds all too familiar to my ears, and it would be wrong to denounce him for that.  The "too little too late" syndrome works just fine for me, as well; and "if usefulness is measured by one's decline you will get no answers"...is also a self deprecating feeling he adheres to...it is a thread throughout his works...but a moving experience to read him and a pleasure to feel a kinship toward him.

.