yes you can mention how cold it is
Though you can't expressly show the cold.
literally breaching my innocence
To capture your heart.

we don't count memories of love
much as they greatly shine in our lives
only the wonders of how its started
reflects its stages in flow.

Time developes it and so does it fade with it
worse than a burial
laying ....the dangers of s waterfall
tameable on probability
In
a nightmare of a swim on land.

It was deep.

Much more than meaningful.



More like a cornerstone romance,

from a library in the cosmos.



Like a deep sea scroll,

One unobtainable,

And nothing about it tameable.



It was like solstice, but not summer,

Like solstice, but not winter.



Like a fifth season,

One of its own,

Flaunting all the colours.



It was something enchanting,

Like snow falling on palm trees.



Something mesmerising,

Magnetic,

Hypnotic,

And blissful.



It was unclaimed,

Unowned,

Like land on Jupiter.



It was shocking,

But not horrible.

More like waves of adrenalin,

The ones that save your life.



But this pearl was less about my life,

And more about my death.



This was less about him

And more about me.



For all the magic I foresaw,

Was the magic that is me.



...............................................................­............................................

​

I am the supernova romance

Etched on an emerald tablet,

Clutched by Aphrodite.



A story you’d find carved in a dream,

Retold upon rising with bewilder and a gleam.



I was the dance to The Drifters,

Upon 11pm sandy shores,



The kiss under the bridge,

In that electric storm,



The naked swim in the caves,

That night the moon turned rose red,



The whisper louder than the roaring crowd,

That made you smile and nod your head.



I'm the twist of violet,

In an orange fuchsia sunset,

A besotted perfume linger,

Once inhaled you can’t forget.



I was the fire in that winter desert,

Where we talked about the truth,



The zest in your drink,

When we sat squished in that tiny booth.



And I was the 20 white candles lit,

In that studio,

On the French blue coast,  



The warm wink in the room when

You stand to give a toast.



Now I’ll be the film you wish you saw on the silver screen,

And the private island you only wish you could have been.



So before I died I was reborn.

From that shell without the veil,

From that pearl without the mourn.



Projection death on a canvas blank.

For the romance I have only myself to thank.

​

BY NICOLE BONOMI

These are things we do not
   Speak of,
A class of violence that breeds
    A certain endurable suffering.....

  It is in the curious nature
Of survival
Which caresses the poor
And listens only to the nocturnal
Whispers of savages,
   Crude and tameable
It is accepted outside of the unacceptable,
     Where the deep concerns
For low income pass through
The eye of a needle and they
Can shout from a safe distance
With charitable murmurs
Enthusiastically hoping one
Makes it out of the ghetto.

     Home is where the heart is,
A heart of the unacceptable
With victims below middle class,
     Chronic renewal of violence,
Another ethnic man with darkness
On skin is dead,
The eloquent news states,
The futile concerns from outside
Keeping the animals in place.
   The permissible violence
Is lamented in segments and tidbits,
    It is good only that the poor
Might stay out of the unacceptable.

One can write of anger, of fear
Of mystery or tears
But one must never write of love

Emotions at first, are a foggy mist
Swirling the depths of our minds,
Intangible, elusive, unlatched -
All we desire is a meaning attached

Through action or words
The mist escapes our souls
Turning to warm liquid
Slightly tangible
Before seeping through our knuckles
Slippery wet

However, you will find,
The most interesting form of emotions that exists
Is when they hit a writer’s page
Like crimson puddles of his blood
Turning from hot liquid life
To solid concrete print

One can write of anger, of fear
Of mystery or tears
But one must never write of love
For it is both a roaring beast
And foggy mist
Neither tangible or tameable
By the confinement of words

So my answer to the question
Of why I never write of love
Is: how can one write a poem about love
When love is a poem in itself?

We are left with the tameable
Cause that's what it took to survive
The one's with the true message
Couldn't bear to be here now
The youth with all the purpose
Are muted in the dark
The crowds that stick around
Are faded, broken down.

I don't know what this is,
A prayer, poem, a song
With all the early graves
With all the good men in the ground
I guess my heart needs consoling,
So I write to remember
This is what it took to survive.

-UV