Siren Whispers

Siren Song


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Saturday storms

It’s raining, a drink of water after parched days. The ground was littered with odd drops,  scattered randomly, before the thunder came and the heavens opened.

The rain always stops me in my tracks. I wait. I watch. I wonder. And my heart aches with some unfathomable feeling that soaks me to my core with a haunting want.

He is the one I think of when the rain falls, shattering itself upon the pavement. A Saturday morning with nothing but the sound of rain, and thunder in the distance. It’s always him I think of  — sitting end to end on a couch, reading. Or, notebooks open upon laps, jotting down something that comes to us, dialogue or a poem. I think of laying in his arms, just listening to the rain, not saying a word. I think of the intimacy of the moment and how completely I want that. I think of how this will never come to pass.

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Photograph taken from Pinterest, original source unknown.


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Paradox of the quiet sea

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My eyes take in the quiet sea,

appreciating the color and lines,

the clear view of the horizon.

The swells will come,

(this I know)

churning beneath the waves –

unseen but expected –

as I acknowledge that everything

is unsettled

and all I can do

is ride that wave to shore.

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken by SirenSong1208

 

 


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Writing true

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Sometimes writing is like slipping

off your clothes

in the waning light of day

effortless

exhalation on a sigh

but most often it is retching

in solitude

a heaving up of your insides

results that are never pretty

generally painful

but necessary

relief

momentary

 until all that bubbles up

furiously

is expelled

finding purchase

upon the page

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken by SirenSong1208

 


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When night closes in

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I want to know

the thoughts that linger in his mind

when night closes in.

Do they render him sleepless,

his mind a hive

of activity,

plans and conjecture,

a body fitful with want;

or is he able to pull them

about him,

like a blanket,

feeling every soft pass

against his skin,

an inaudible sigh within

pleasure pulling him deep into dreams.

I want to know

the thoughts that linger in his mind

when night closes in,

I want to know

if they are of me.

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken by SirenSong1208


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With every breath

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It starts slow —

tentative touch

blooming 

with color across your skin.

Like a meadow in summer,

thoughts that meander

gradually becoming

a steady hum

as he takes up residence.

A delicious

jolt

whenever you happen upon him

coursing through your veins,

pulsing beneath your skin.

Not simply desire

or respect

nor even tender regard,

but an

awakening

to him

and to yourself.

With every breath.

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Copyright ©SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken by SirenSong1208


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Beneath the surface

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The older I get,

the more I realize

how like the sea I am.

That liquid expanse of horizon –

always blue to me,

melancholic with longing,

a churning, churlish mass of feeling;

everything happening beneath the surface,

much like my own insides.

A soul at turns calm or chaotic,

but as quickly as it is stirred,

it bellows forth, a tempest of emotion

releasing and gentling itself.

Changeable tides,

ebbing and flowing as response,

some inner metronome

keeping a steady beat

like my heart.

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken from White Noten, unsourced


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She has curves

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She has

curves he loves

to grip;

holding her

close to his chest,

resting

in his lap.

He caresses her,

his fingers

knowing

which strings to

pluck

strum

tease;

to make the most beautiful music.

He makes her sing sweetly.

Sometimes

she is accarezzévole,

whispering tenderly;

other times

she is played con affetto,

roaring with passion

abandon

giving her all.

But whichever way she sings

to him,

her voice,

her song

is just for

him.

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Copyright ©SirenSong1208

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Art taken from verycoolphotoblog.com