LifestylePersona August, 6th 2012 by

The Poetry of Apryl Skies

Black Birds

What is real within dream?

The vision, the scent
the taste of dreamscape’s apple
crisp with sin’s tart intent?

Or be it soft feathers or angels singing
their voice one golden thread,
be it an intuitive lock
the key a poet’s tongue?

Where is the wing when not a bird,
the song when not a sparrow?

Why do we cry in sentences?
Our sorrow hungry s(words
piercing the silence like black birds
crying into darkness

if only to be h(ear)d

Apryl Skies © 2012

Manipulating the Pendulum

We are forgotten until
We relearn the sky and its voice,
the balance of Earth and fire,
the cost of  flame~

We must remeasure the soil
with our empty cups and quiet fears
that render us silent
divide the gold from ore,
reset the balance of things;
the elements abandoned as myth

We are forgotten until
We recount the stars and wheat fields
which divide us sound and distance
from our true purpose and its bend against
this endless circle of survival and sustenance…

But time can be reset,
a universal reversal
as sand vessels fill to brim
and sundial shadows shift,
Centuries of clock hands
dance their backward spin~
as fossils become diamonds
under the weight and pressure
of our sanguine dreaming

And we together
manipulate the pendulum
to rebuild our most precious

Apryl Skies © 2012

That Whiskey Blue Sway

Fingers fierce and fragile
dance the porcelain fire away,
setting ebony to ivory
against the white of evening lights…

Tonight, even the houseflies
have their sway and swagger,
ghosts will stride
with secrets placed pocket-deep
and everyone knows
where the whiskey flows–
Cigarette to flame,
fingertips to quiet lips,
a melody unbroken beneath
the veil of whispering…
She’s got that whiskey-blue sway

Across the ballroom
her eyes are invitations
She wears these blues
like a little black dress
Flowers peek
from the tuck of curls,
(all red and smiling)
hips set to boogie and bass,
a swing of taunt
against eyes and their flight
And tonight patterns emerge
from black and white
as an un-masked clown
sits dim in the corner,
chasing the madness to glow
The smoke and music fills,
unmoving in its sway;
unlost within the depths of corners,
we become poetry written
on cocktail napkins
and the rhythm that moves
the night to a crawling groove.

Music and moonglow
parade through quiet eyes,
each smile ardently unhindered
by the darkness that steals in
through the cracks of your true intentions

Eyes glimmer with provocation,
An invitation to where smoke
curls into corners,
igniting our dreams golden
and amid the lingering sweet-dry
of your snuffed cigar
I am reacquainted with the delights
of you, my Muse
and through your Basil Hayden haze
you declare…

“God is a thief!
Your eyes an endless treasure
of stolen stars.”

Your voice ancient like ruby scarabs,
daunting as jinn
and when
the door to my heart
would not open,
(artful in your attempts to lure)
you gently forced it ajar
leaving footprints
upon the clouds of my
trampled dreaming…

Apryl Skies © 2012


Edgar Allan Poet –  website and the main page.

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