Blue Clouds

Against a milky white sky
I paint blue clouds
rioting crowds
drifting, shifting
bursting to cry.

Clouds are supposed to be white, you say
or gray.
I grunt.
This is my canvas to play
my palette to bend.
Your brush is dry
your canvas is blank
you sank
into the mire of tradition
creative perdition
while I fly,
a speck of light undetected
seeking love uninfected.

There are blue clouds
in my white sky.
Don't ask why
or try
to dodge the looming storm.
I can't conform
to suit your need;
I just bleed
blue ink on a white page.

 

(c) 2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Facade

 

Timid heart
behind a loud roar.
Why must you yell all the time?
Dodge and dart.
Your fist through the door.
Am I at fault for your crime?
Bloody nose
between tearful eyes.
Forgiven before you strike twice.
No one knows!
I cover with lies
so the world thinks you're nothing but nice.

(c)2009 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

En Garde (the anatomy of a relationship)

 En Garde (the anatomy of a relationship)

encounter
enchant
endear
enrapt
engorge
entwine...
enmesh
ensconce
encroach
encumber
enervate
enslave...
ennui
enough!
end

 

(c)2009 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)  

Color of Pain

Call me Crayola.
The only sharp
bright red one
in your box of dull
gray stubs.
Creative carmine
mocks your gnarled spirit
cemented in ashen complacency.
Courage!
Forsake all others!
Step off the slate
and dive headlong
into the color of pain.
I am your ruby temptress
poised to kick you in the bland
and spatter your drab
in vermilion agony,
like a gunshot wound to the throat.
The fear and surprise in your eyes is amusing.
Warm crimson seeps through your clutching fingers.
Can't staunch the flow
when scarlet ignites.
Rubicund tendrils pierce imagination
copper odor singes nostrils,
prickling taste buds
until garnet drool oozes.

Did you not read the warning
on the side of the box?
"Play with fire
and you get churned."

 

 (c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

The Gravity of Changing Seasons

Parchment skin
dry and brittle
upon which Time charts herstory.
Veins like roadmaps
rise to the translucent surface.
Unfurrowed brow still frowns in peace
and a relaxed mouth hovers between parentheses,
    collagen-sapped jowls,
    and slackened chin.
Perky breasts with lush protruding buttons
    droop lower than she remembers
Sexy concave navel nested among rigid abs
now punctuates the hilly contour of softened belly and widened hips,
    retired from bikinis and incubating progeny.

She examines the reflected breasts, belly, thighs, and ass
astonished at their eagerness to drop to her feet;
the only thing that has risen is the curve of her hips.
Great.
Her youthful zest and girlish spirit
are betrayed by her mirror -
    objective judge and harsh accuser.
There is no defense against the compelling evidence
accumulating above the briefs
in the creases and folds of ivory vellum.
No fair trial for youth and beauty.
The sentence is consistent:
incarceration in crumbling cells
with no chance of reprieve.

When did vibrant summer turn to fading fall?
Can dead of winter be far behind?

 

(c)2009 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022) 

Fragile

I love your voice
It curls around me
like smoky incense
Arouses me
even as you speak
of oil changes and new tires 

I love your laughter
It froths like uncorked champagne
Contagious, flirtatious
fusing the space between us.  

How will I live without you?  

You spoke the language
of poets and songwriters
Smooth, sweet, rich
I savored fine chocolate;  

but I was mortally wounded
by your darkness
spinning out of control
on the tail of a comet
self-doubting and gloomy
abysmally lonely
terminally angry
rejecting that voice
deflecting that laughter
until the system pinging ceased.  

I have been so busy hating you for so long
I forgot how much I love you.

 (c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Drowning

 

You've dropped from view
afloat no more
sucked down into the icy maelstrom
of your creation,
leaving broken puka shells
in the coral rubble
and petrified driftwood
in your wake.

Your wake.
You lie
like the rest of the dead.
A painted corpse
reclining amid forsaken anemones
plucked from gardens of guilt.
"Not my guilt," I vow
from my gilt castle above it all.

One last look at the churning sea,
and I turn from my window
to curl before the glowing fireplace.

(c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Cidade dos Sonhos (City of Dreams)

 

Strains of the waltz float on moth wings,
the flutter inaudibly whispers my name.

With the grace of gauze and the density of sighs
he is suddenly at my side.
In his ossified embrace
I smell decay on his breath,
and my skin curdles as he purrs.
His vacant sockets hypnotize,
a glint of mirror in their depths.

I teeter on the edge,
spy my rosy cheeks under stunned eyes
staring back, growing dim.
He extends a cadaverous hand.
Fingers like brittle icicles
press against the small of my back.
An unexpected shiver plucks my spinal chord.
And the waltz plays on.

Step to the left, step to the right,
swoon into a dip, and twist in a twirl.
I orbit the specter as he leads the dance,
his lush seduction congeals my blood.
The chink of bone, ground to powder,
bleached in acidic curses
    of unanswered prayers,
        unfulfilled dreams,
        unclaimed memories -
the ballast of my necropolitan host.
His grotesque grin,
the harbinger of eternal denial.

I hate blind dates. 

 

 (c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

 

Seven and a Half Minutes

 

I light another,
even as his brother
still smoulders in the crystal graveyard
    where pacifiers are crushed after cremation.

Grey ash elongates,
masks amber embers
stoked by ruby lips
pursed perfectly 'round the tip.

Inhale the disease,
surrender to the slavemaster,
for stress dissipates like smoke
    with each new kiss.

I am seven and a half minutes closer to death.

 

(c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022) 

Criticism

Don't hate me
for fulfilling your expectations of my failure.
I am obedient, eager to please.
My self-hatred basks in your revulsion.
I burrow for your disapproval
like an infant roots for the mammary.
Negative energy stokes my engine of laziness and inhibition.
Shrouded in procrastination and paralysis,
I hide under your laden table,
picking crumbs of judgment and derision from the carpet.
Do not step on my fingers;
I use them to spin yarns and knit tales
of despicable adoration and nihilistic ritual.

Sting me again;
there is one spot on my shoulder
not yet swollen by your venom.

 

(c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022) 

Bequeathed

I pledge allegiance
to the crowd
of the transcendent state of hysteria
and to the ancestors from which it sprang
one notion
under guard
with bigotry, injustice - our call.

(c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)