preparing for winter
Posted in Captured - The Spoken Word, Crimson Writ, Poetry on September 14th, 2018 by D'jaevlelittle red went riding
and found the woods too cold
now she’s nestled next to me
vessel
Posted in Poetry on May 23rd, 2018 by D'jaevleI’m never so possessive,
but in want
for a gold
(empty)
chalice
for me
to
fill
you are.
jericho doll
Posted in Poetry on August 4th, 2017 by D'jaevleI knew the girl, but lost her name.
where her heart was kept
was not the same
I knew the shape, her silvered need
but not how deep the cut
to see her bleed
I lined each blade within a row
gave each a word (a word she’d know).
and I waited by the tower built
touched each edge, each blade and hilt.
route 66
Posted in Poetry on March 14th, 2017 by D'jaevlethere is a beauty to a curve that
doesn’t quite end, it just
becomes another curve
like a smile
or silk
like a kimono showing
a bared shoulder
is a curve
you
are a curve
faultlines
Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on May 30th, 2016 by D'jaevleI crack nails on stone to find rich soil
mold clay into flesh
and flesh into place
heat my hands between your thighs
so I can temper skin
into marble
a smooth
perfect
cage
I set chisel to bone
and wait for
“Please.”
lean into it
shell cracked, lines split
topology and braille
I never loved you so much as when your imperfections were mine to trace.
one by one
Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on December 4th, 2015 by D'jaevletime is measured observation
I mark mine by your breath
unbidden or coaxed
in ease or labored
promised or stolen
I count them all.
wired in
Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on November 13th, 2015 by D'jaevleit is no terrible act
when you fit so well
in the cradle
of my fist
it is no terrible word
the one that starts
with me
and ends with you
(on your knees)
it is no terrible promise
rope, a bed, and you
bared
wet
mine.
it is no terrible price
we pay
to have it
but the hunger I harbor
for you
is terrible
and great
and smolders
like the acts, the words, the promises, and the price.
not pumpkin-related
Posted in Poetry on October 9th, 2015 by D'jaevleTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and neither did I take.
pricked by bramble and bush,
I rambled through
counting nicks with bloody glee.
Stepping over rot and splendor,
hidden temples of bugs,
no clearing found, no stream followed
just branches snapping like weak limbs
and I, crawling, walking reverent on dying leaves
a hospice for trees.
if this is decay
it is sweet.
movement
Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on June 6th, 2015 by D'jaevlethe creak
under my feet
when you kneel
the ellipse
of your hips
a gathering
(tightening)
of your hair
between my fingers