Anna Donovan is a psychologist and educator currently residing in Texas. A multi-cultural background provides her with a definite sense of identity. It also supplies her with a rich source of myth and legend to spring from as well as a catalyst with which to absorb and resolve life experiences.
The Blade
You called and I sat
unsteady on a hard bar stool,
stared at your back
and heard your words tempered
by grinding sounds
steady on a whetstone.
I have something for you
you said,
and the glint of steel
spoke of gliding on soft flesh,
pliable and nude.
You sliced sweet peppers,
held each deliberate sliver
to my lips
and I knew the taut ease
of fingers round
a blue Lace Agate handle
as my blood gathered
in a gush of silence
to seize a blind knowledge:
I want the smooth silk dance
on the blade's beveled surface,
the tongue taunting premonitions
gilded and heavy over sharp metal.
Sweat of Days
The sweat of days
weighs
Hematite heavy
on disheveled shoulders.
Overhead,
the city's tepid breath stirs smoke rings
round a damaged lace moon,
and her frail steps scrape a trail
of decaying blossoms.
A wanton red muscled chaos follows
moving vehicles in the random lotto of mishaps
down a mired vine dressed freeway.
And we hone on home,
tune to its beacon
with wax cone longings
of dust and pollen,
as the carnage pulsates inevitable and twisted,
in a blare of diffused madness and distant bells,
disembodied from lucidness.
Clouds woven veils unspool
live and layered
to a brittle full flare
dispersing slants of gilded time.
It whispers to cloistered swallows under bridges
where snarled magic falls in bottomless honeycombs
and travelers steep in exhaust and shadow
wafting into the deep white noise
of a dying night's last words.
Love Census
In Valentino red and the persistent
redolence of slow blooming carnations
the love census comes to my habitation.
They are stoic, they are melodic,
they lilt and ripple
through my spaces
in thick rimmeled poses
and riddled phrases.
Is there desperate love?
love consuming to the bone?
trial by flame love?
doomed, beautiful love?
No, no, no, and no.
This dwelling is love proof,
love purged,
all evidence destroyed
with flawed finality.
They confer, huddled as the fates,
their speech sparkling a melancholy
rich and flitting
as stringed instruments.
They lament in unison
how love has gone
the way of haute couture
and the last emperor's
sequined soirees.
I walk them out,
and their Valentino red
fades into market shares.
And I fade into a pale bedspread,
sink into a dreamless
sort of dreaming.
Visna Perdis
Visna Perdis worries about me,
problem is, I'm not Anthony,
and I don't know about Anthony,
but I don't care for women,
hot or cold, not in that way,
of course body temperature
is of much importance
and I dislike extremes,
if women are burning somewhere,
it must be stopped,
they must be helped,
but I'm not Anthony.
Visna Perdis confuses me
with her concerns,
she does not want me
to slave away all my life,
I should follow her link
and earn $300 per hour,
but Visna, I'm not Anthony!
I hate to take
such an opportunity away from Anthony,
for all I know he is pale
forlorn, and jobless.
Visna, please stop,
every day you tempt me
but I'm not Anthony,
now I worry about Anthony,
millions of dollars at his fingertips
and he is nowhere to be found.
Visna, with all the time you have to email,
won't you please find Anthony?
Cantaor
His voice is
dark as bruises,
sharp with ironies
and counter-melodies.
Fluid gestures sift
sun and shadow,
as ancient spirits pass
behind his eyes
and in passion trance
vanish into flame.
His shadow eases
wind and moonlight glints
dense with quince trees.
His eyes burn
moody as Moorish facades,
an amber consonance
of narrow alleys
and torch flames.
Framed by midnight's
ivy canopy
his ringlets follow
their own directive
and trail at will
down a sinuous, strong back.
He is languid lust,
the sweet spot linger,
paradox of causality swiveling
on jagged base notes
and spellbound love
on the verge of involuntary
double jointed howls.
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