dreams, Earthly voids & Spiritual quest

Sundog

Hyper-sleeping in diamond dust.
Above the dreaming pool
fingertips snaps,
bursting river feelings as
sudden swollen demands.
Let them permeate the earth.
Mother’s core contains all heaviness,
all sorrows and more seasoned scenarios.

Even though his voice
went into a vacuum void,
he was not confused in the darkness. Eventually the light passes through
pinhole dreams.

Daughter Colma, universal child
silently waits on the high hill.
Persistant to find her lover again.
Rising in the gloaming, out of clay, her love, shaped by the beam of fire.
Until summer days fill with ash,
and devotion,
goes beyond the river’s edge.
Swimming towards
the innerconnected horizon.
Up the arc of his haloed skin.
Willfully dripping prisms.

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Jay Poem 12.

Jen Junebearers 

Stepping barefoot out into a leafy glimmering patch.           Junebearers shoo-in little red desires.                                                     O’ how they dazzle my senses.

Like when I was nine and picked all the wild strawberries from Gram’s patch.                                         Couldn’t resist the taste.            With stained fingertips and crimson mouth…I buried the leftover leafy evidence.

That Metamora June, when I was nearly seventeen; I gave you more than a handful of plump red gems. I had somewhere buried my leftover stained heart in that festival ground.

Your daughter, now seventeen, is the Jen gem of June.                        She harvest her own Junebearers with hands like yours.

O’ Junebearers…Junebearers, the truth you hold about June.                 They are here, as you are.                   They are gone, as you are.

Poem: Naomi Ruth

Images: Pinterest and ceramic image: Naomi Ruth

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Jay Poem 4.

Amethyst August

She dreamt of an August night,   red and blue run across his chest.
binding his heart to bleed amethyst.

Once, he lied in her lap, sank in the fragrance of sunflowers.                 He stretched out upon her, like he was lying on the cool meadow ground of Colorado.

His hand danced in hers,               her slender fingers                          bended and bounded, in his mind.

She never got to kiss him on a starlit August night.                         For the stars, scattered…       forever a mess.

He always remains, in the age of twenty-four, and she is no longer the child.

Poem and Art by: Naomi Ruth Saharski W.

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