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Musings
Wednesday, 07/20/2005
When I sleep
Mood:  not sure








At midnight
under the mystic's moon
vaporous opiates she exhales slowly
into the universal soul.

The magnolia sleeps at night
upon broad shoulders, almost suspect.

At midnight
the open window welcomes the flit
of a firefly, in and out. Fearless.
Do they dream of fragrant trees
solemn and silent?

Melancholy does arise pale sheeted
over the sunrise, new portal, idol stone.

The echoes become the child within
always thrilling, yet alone.


D. Claudia Ash

July 2005

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 4:43 PM EDT
Updated: Wednesday, 07/20/2005 4:53 PM EDT
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Saturday, 03/26/2005
Experience
img





Your name a reminder
remains in my mouth as
you become the other even
if just for the moment.

There is no us
just experiences in that
circle of your scent, I swim.
In your taste, King Solomon's figs
sticky on my lips.

Your touch alive like
fire opals dropped onto the freshly
fallen snow. Laughter at one point
will replace desperate hunger.
Hours tracked so carefully
not wanting to miss one moment...

I was not meant for you
you were not meant for me yet,
somehow we become the other's other.

In breath and pulse, heat and motion
you open me like a clean white saguaro
late in the evening. The moon shades
rosey brown nipples against a backdrop
of what is to come.

Moments so fleeting, experiences so primal
their trail on my skin a delicious
reminder of the heat that was.


D. Claudia Ash
February 2003

Muse6165@copyright.com

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 10:08 PM EST
Updated: Saturday, 03/26/2005 10:13 PM EST
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Wednesday, 03/09/2005
The Evil Garden
img





The muse lives in her evil garden
a muse in exile. An enigma.
A lover comes to her meticulously slow
the hunger excruciating.

She can not ask but it is known
that her soul was born in his
shallow breath. A paradox.

The muse lives in her evil garden
ploughed and hoed with tears painfully planted.
Each time she thinks of him the crocus
gets bathed in rain. A dove coos.

She is nestled in this garden of fragrant
honeysuckles that court the soon to be
night's dwindling light, shimmering naked.

The muse lives in the evil garden
of her own making aware of the rivets
up her spine and the kiss that will renew.

He inhabits her like the golden sun's rays
on the ash-trees' bark.


D. Claudia Ash

November 2002



Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 9:33 PM EST
Updated: Saturday, 03/26/2005 10:22 PM EST
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Monday, 02/21/2005
Layers
img




Hands of grace
I come undone
the smooth hand of
a dream slips inside
the tomb of me.

Rocks, slick with rain
skimming across puddles was
somehow suppose to remind you of me.
My scent kept alive inside the brown
spine of your books.

I love with a hot core intensity
raging religiously as February's
pale sun shines high, at faceless
G-d's set upon altars bereft of wrongs.

Hands enhanced
undone over those pebbles
we grind over.
Hourglass fragments under a barren tree
wafting fragrant branches...

Just a silly girl in her lingerie.


D. Claudia Ash

March 2005

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 9:15 PM EST
Updated: Monday, 02/21/2005 9:36 PM EST
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Watching you, watching me




Daughter, lover, mother
with all the ribbons undone
familiar terrain I collect and savor.
Red wine in bed.

You watch me, you have me...
I have written a thousand pages
speaking your name. Head back, now swallow.

Beneath the wings of your eyes
hands cool along my jaw, apple split open.
There is no emotional anarchy between us.

Red wine in bed
familiar terrain...somehow
books won't love us back unlike this poem
in my head. I taste eternity in just one
of your kisses. Your fruit beckons me.
I become a delighted disaster.


D. Claudia Ash

March 2005

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 2:57 PM EST
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Sunday, 02/20/2005
Author
img







I don't say his name
the punishment drains me
like sand pulled by tide
over my toes. I sink in and grab on.

Naked
hope suffers
morning manna left uncollected
thoughtlessly discarded.
I decay like that.

I no longer touch you
our story will not end with your leaving.
Lay me down on your cold bed, sheets
pressed perfect.

The moon adorns the roof as
light winnows in I play on my
dungeon floor after one of our storms.

I am the sacrificial altar
momentary calm. Balmy flowers tremble
before the new day greets us.
I hold dew on a platter.

I remember all this,
you are still mine.


D. Claudia Ash


January 5, 2005

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 12:45 AM EST
Updated: Sunday, 02/20/2005 12:55 AM EST
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Sunday, 02/06/2005
First person, I







Merlot brings you to mind
full bodied, Moroccan silk
cinnabar scented, a goblet
of womanhood.

The scent of tobacco hummed
between us. Unbalanced fan serenade.
Wine stain romantic, reminds me of Puccini,

Something glamorous. Spanish dance
courting hips and hands, eyelashes fan
stub bled face...

That first glass makes me sigh
mouth soft, bed sheet stripped.
I hold my breath and watch, cream
over blueberries burst languid.

You know who i am
you send me spiraling
full of riotous ache...


November 2004

D. Claudia Ash

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 11:03 PM EST
Updated: Wednesday, 02/09/2005 9:25 PM EST
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Sunday, 01/09/2005
Memories



It was night
glossy black stars dotted
vermilion-like beads
down along the cypress
our talks were sober
the tree nymphs trembled
our sweat sighed,
clarity revealed.

We were two tombs creaking
you tempted me with demons
jewel cold, spoken like a
charmed storyteller.

Lured, left shimmering
shuddering quiet with a
torment which has no equal.

I broke wild roses
without pardon,
to hold sapphire souls
clasped by fire.


D. Claudia Ash

March 2003

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 2:49 PM EST
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Monday, 01/03/2005




View My Guestbook

Sign My Guestbook



Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 10:03 PM EST
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Poetry





Poetry is hair cut
straight across your forehead
two blue plums and people talking
or thinking about not talking
then finally second thoughts.

Marriage vows, being bashful
the nakedness of time once written on a
coffee house stained napkin.

Warm hands cold from burnt-out paradigms
It glows like the storyteller's trance under a fire.

Brightly dressed Syrian women wearing
silks and sarongs, an agate ring brushing
cool away our inner voice.

Dignity, a kiss under a street lamp,
the ghost which haunts us, the hot stillness,
arid and sweltering droning on.

Poetry, the starved sould of myth and fairytale,
the layered fantasy chemise the Muse wears for
the artist. The lake at dusk with lanterns
lit. It is perpetual.


D. Claudia Ash
January 2005

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 8:51 PM EST
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Monday, 12/13/2004
Swallowed







I saw the mirror
all my sensual needs
form illusions around me like
a caring friend.

Guilt and solitude
made my bedroom huge.
You appear at night
both dead and alive
leaning toward me like marbled
quarried madness.

I am vulnerable at your
hands as you are poured
out into flames that leap
from a fragrant garden of women
of wives, two cruel snakes.

I am a hot furrow
suddenly, insane.


D.Claudia Ash
Muse6165@copyright.com

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 9:52 PM EST
Updated: Monday, 01/03/2005 9:13 PM EST
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Thursday, 12/09/2004
Passion Ice








Sink your hands into me
like potter's clay between fingers
alabaster cool.

I am fire. The poet in me calls
the light moves you. Passion is
our bread, words become fine
wine sipped slow from a chalice.

The curve of the vase
I am the gypsy in the mask
Where are the mirrors?
Will I become the Delphic oracle
kissing through glass?


Muse6165@copyright.com

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 2:08 PM EST
Updated: Monday, 01/03/2005 9:27 PM EST
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Monday, 11/29/2004
Want







I want
i dare not say it
I freeze
yet i burn like
a forged blade,
still steaming.

I am soft
made from pieces of earth
clay's origins adorned with
plumes, bearing the Muse's Laurel
screams out what we are and
how we want.

I fear
living in sweet contentment
i am soldered to my passions
up against the brass headboards.

I want to sleep like Calloiope's bed
divine with grace
I want to walk in the still moonlight
hollow caves, on a crisp winter's night
watching my breath create misty halos that float
on indigo sheets as unborn saviours of
angels unborn.

I want.

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 10:31 PM EST
Updated: Monday, 01/03/2005 9:40 PM EST
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Wednesday, 11/24/2004
Douse me







Douse me in your gentle rain
cascading like freedom
spilling onto city streets.

There are no reasons why, perhaps
just for the thrill.
I am left standing
holding your orchid, plucked
tipped upward
in delicious anticipation.

Douse me in your gentle rain
was that wicked of me?
Did you edge closer, closer still?
To smell the secret spice
as ancient as the Queen of Sheba
the mist that swallows.

Stranger things have been
known to happen when i think of you.

Inside of me
crashing crystal shards
melt into pools of promises
carefully drafted, edited and bound.
They litter me with desire,
occasionally satisfied when
you deem timely.

We seep into one another
like olives marinating in an earthenware
dish, deep in green olive oil
like a child's bedcover.

Nothing will be left undiscovered
as your hand slips under the
red velvet bodice, oval shell buttons left intact.

Wrap around slowly
slower, still...


January 2003

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 3:10 PM EST
Updated: Saturday, 01/08/2005 9:10 PM EST
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Fireflies lie


What lies do fireflies tell
as they hover over the smooth green stream
algae thick and murky.

I marvel at the wind in the birch
and suddenly, the words rise like bread.

I can sense the ache within
the rhyme, the time and reason.

What lies do fireflies tell
when they pass weathered frayed
shuttered windows,
as clouds stretch overhead
rolling their moist shoulders
as you do with me.

Still
another lie
for that
solitary magic moment.

Posted by poetry/muse6165 at 12:11 PM EST
Updated: Saturday, 01/08/2005 9:17 PM EST
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