Espalier Vineyard Seams...

Espalier vineyard seams in a caked earth canvas stretched.
Below leaves dipped in near autumn gold,
crow talons press atmosphere to dirt,
kicking up dust in the madness of an inebriated dance.

—Hopping∞Spinning—

Heads bowing in the receiving of dusted globes of fallen fermented fruit,
their sleek necks fluted,
drink of the blood and light,
in communion with nature and the smoldering horizon's hum.

—Circling∞Diving—

The choral of dragonfly chaos,
where a little girl runs free in laughing grasses.
Her hair pinned by their iridescent curiosity,
wings like stars in evening flight.

My heart light,
weightless thoughts drunk on love,
for how the sun sets within her skin,
like the tone of my voice on the day she was born.

—Blush and blossom—

First minutes of new life,
I whispered in her ear,
asking of her old soul
how she'd like to adventure in this life…

…and she sighed oceans,
and she stretched mountains,
and she forged possibilities,
giving my life great meaning…


—Giver∞Keeper∞Mother— 


E.A. O'Connell

Emerald Facets Catching Twilight...

Emerald facets catching twilight, 

illuminating life aswim in the rippling wall

Gills and lungs circling and fleeing

Swells increasing his height, shrouding an early night about her

One-by-one the stars come forth to bear witness,

his rabid foaming grins nipping at her ankles

he gathering strength, 

pulling from far and wide,

stealing her footing as the sandy bottom follows his command

She standing lone before his might, 

releasing a breath held far too long,

taking form of birds in flight,

their starlit backs

—silver coins cast—

sinking into the horizon

Impassioned threats of drowning,

his thundering voice beckoning her to fall into fears awaiting arms,

she meets his battle cry with back strong

—eyes clear of mind—mind clear of heart—heart pure of thought—

The unknown whispering her forward, 

guiding her without future sight,

she extends him a tender hand,

the stars hush,

and the world in wait,

falls silent…

E.A. O'Connell

Ghost. Ghost.

Murder of crows sitting amongst the tangle of bare branches

Plump bodies nested like ripe black grapes

One spies me and in direct line of vision

Stretches his neck screaming in a high pitched range,

"Hope! Hope! Hope!"

A second bids me a tilt of the head and a one eyed judgment

In a deep bellied rasp he sighs,

"Ghost. Ghost."

E.A. O'Connell

I Breathe...

I woke with a head aching from the dreams I attempted to slow and replay in an utterly damning slideshow— my mind is more of a flip book in forward and reverse, and I grasp for near memories that slip past, but I only seem to ever pluck snippets of lips in voiceless cadence and eyes in blink— the laugh lines…the hands of a golden sun age— waves crashing at my shins, pulling sand from beneath my feet, leaving my toes afloat on sea breezes and my equilibrium tested on shell backs and lightning glass...

There’s a wind I can see in colors of evening’s frayed, and it carries with it muffled thoughts that hum like dunes and so I turn towards it— but still you aren’t there…you haven’t been there…but in some strange twist of life you steal in unseen on the tide…the sea foam that effervesces at my heels— I feel you and laugh to the rhythm of sandpiper’s stepping...

I can’t keep a handle on the pain that sickens my gut like a phantom organ giving me hell for the excising of it from my core.  I curl up in the restless haze and the torture the pain infects, contorting my body in angles I recall from surrealist hands, and just to take my mind off the ache I laugh my way through mathematical equations constellated in my pupils— the pain that knocks me about like a vessel in a tempest— I’m a shipwreck...

...and the hands of the ticking clock wait open to receive all of me...taking everything...making everything a thing of the past...

I think of children and how they run with their arms outstretched, certain they are nothing less than an airplane in flight as their little feet carry them miles from earth— I remember miles in flight— I carry exhaustion in my lungs—I let it go...and so I just breathe…I breathe...

E.A. O'Connell

An Untitled, Unfinished Work (Short Story/Flash Fiction)

We laid in the grass by the pond, my head resting on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his breathing slowing to a serenity that transferred to my own lungs.  We silently watched as the periwinkle evening slowly slipped into a dusky violet, sinking deep within indigo, until succumbing to the pitch black; far and wide, a sky lit with star and planet shimmer, about us firefly glow.  The night birds, frogs, and insects were alive with songs of wings, throats, and legs that stirred him enough to break our silence with the hushed words of an exhalation, “Marais la nuit.”  I loved hearing him speak French, and since it wasn’t often that he did so, I closed my eyes and let the words, carried in his husky voice, nest within my ears.  I replied with a pleased, “Mmmm.” 

We lay there stargazing for quite some time in the quiet of summer, until I interrupted the silence.  “I’ve been thinking lately about something.”

“Oh?”

“When we’re in utero, we’re attached to our mothers by a cord.  This cord is our link to nourishing and nurturing, and when we are born this cord is severed and in its place a hole is left.  I can’t help but wonder if that’s how it is with all things that nourish and nurture us, when they are no longer there…be it a life or a love…due to some tie being severed, is a hole left in its place?  Keep in mind this could also be said for those people and events that hurt and drain us as well.”

“Hmm?  Why do you ask such a question?”

“Because I feel holes within me, only they feel more transparent than like an abyss…more like windows.  And I’ve begun to come to an understanding that as a window, these ‘holes’ have two views, and I could choose to stand outside looking to the past…to all the lives and loves and hurt that have contributed to their existence…or I could stand inside looking out on all that lies before me.”

“So which do you choose?  The second option?”

“Neither.  I think I’d much rather choose the third…to smash through each window, climbing down, and stepping outside into the vast unknown before me…walking blindly, but nonetheless walking, towards something, anything other than the reflections and views that have held me back and kept me stagnant within myself.”

He stayed quiet, but took his arm and wrapped it about me, placing his hand above my heart.

E.A. O'Connell  

...And From the Dark...

...and from the dark came the rhythmic descent of raindrops 

...and the train sounding its travels 

...and the hound howling at a back door

...and I exhaled...

E.A. O'Connell

The Gazing Rock (Flash Fiction)

He lay atop the gazing rock, clouds of india ink morphing against the indigo sky.  

The rolling sweet grass crashing against her thighs, tickling her wrists and palms, releasing the scent of summer heat against her flesh as she walked to him, climbing atop the rock, sinking into his arms.  

Eyes trained on the unfathomable depth of night, the sky spoke with a forked tongue, heightening the electricity between them, his hands releasing a charge through her veins.

E.A. O'Connell

Free

Saints marionette territorial hummingbird persistence

Slowing dart and hover to floral respect of feminine stamina

Nectar spilling sunken sonar song of blue and grey wavelengths

Mimicking night winds that labyrinth the dunes

Where fire bellied clouds crown peaks of pampas grass in bow

Is it not the home of my soul?

Where’ve we been?

What’ve we seen?

    Rusted hinges.  Gas tank static.  Auburn hued dash.

True north compass swaying fertile grasses

Salvation’s secret in gilded dawn spilling caladium spade inebriate

—Tarnishing shadows — Earthen crawl laughter—

I remember snow salve on rose rash

Thorns bleeding—Fingers puncturing

The sting…the burn — The praise for silent strength…for silent healing

Seeded lens photography in the blink of my eye

—the faded denim and worn rivet copper styling

You asked for the world through my eyes

All I’ve ever longed is in the pulse of life threaded palms

My neck aches where your tongue bent me

My head throbs the pulse of a liberated heart

—cindered touch of finger thievery upon my breasts…you tattoo them in webbing…fingers splaying security

Roamer of dream scrawled rails, free willing…

…splintered toes…

…evergreen sewn gashes…

…spider filament braided lashes binding visions from within sleepy conversations…

Oh, the insanity—

Nerves reanimating in orgasms that remind me of my cosmic origins

What had we been?

What sense had we sacrificed to meet the end?

                 —to meet at the end?—

          Free

E.A. O'Connell

Navy Rush of Linen

Navy rush of linen —unfurling

Breeze in auburn August brush fire —smoldering 

Curvaceous haunt, her golden flushed aura —alluring 

Corseted silhouettes of tulip poplar —latticing

Slipping free in fluid bend —descending

Symphony of lust in thoughts of glances —burning

Lost in the aching of a body —desiring

Horizon caress in shadows of flesh —melding

E.A. O'Connell

Summer Light

Papier mache wings of dusk

atop

Hot panic asphalt flowering 

beneath

Mechanical windup flutter

swept in

Slow angles

designing

Frayed map of veining light

E.A. O'Connell

Summer Thunder

The force of the rain in its plummet…piercing my windows…sounds of crystalline splinters…thunder drum…gradual…demanding…of lightning tales cast in shadows…electric bruises…blemishes…plaster my walls…dye my eyelids… 

E.A. O'Connell

There Are Mornings...

There are mornings I thread silk ribbon from the 2:00am sky along my back, stars rivet my flesh, fingers lacing upwards the memories of white cyclamen hips in the grip of pumice stone palms and granite fingers.

There are afternoons I draw the abyss of sockets in skulls ascream with laughter or of clenching jaws in preparation for the impending pain, giving the smudge and rust my blood given name, anointing the soul of the medium with the oil of my rosette ringing fingertips.

There are days, far too many days, when copper pipes sound the summer hiss of copperhead scales sunning upon a flagstone field, ruby-throated stain extending to my breasts and thighs, the scalding shower bringing a new layer alive.

E.A. O'Connell

A Wasteland of Possibilities

A wasteland of possibilities

A chembath of words in an abyss of ink

That you painted cityscapes upon my limbs with

Erecting worlds, lives, thoughts

In a voice of punishing pleasure as you awakened moons

Echoing timbre I scratch you out, scrape you off

With a steel-bristled smudging, layer upon layer of flesh, bone, soul

Where I find haphazardly fit organs corroded in your acid bloom

I still taste words you tattooed upon my tongue

Their vaporizing toxic throat burn with each inhale, each swallow

Only quelled by noxious fumes of diesel trucks that race alongside me

Exhausted breezes whipping my hair in a familiar rhythm

Your half-hearted pulse

And the lost horizon that whispered of how you painted me a nonexistent define 

But I, woman of pitch roads and high speeds, navigating hell and earth intersected

The gape-mouthed stars’ guidance

Reminding me of a worth infinite and illuminated, coiling and intimidating

I strip you of the right to form my name

And curse your want of editing my existence

For I am time and I am atoms

And try as you might

I’ll never go extinct

E.A. O'Connell

The No More Series (or Thoughts on Existence & Presence): III

No more audible 

than the scream of a lantern seeking moth, 

bound in spider filament, 

traces of precious wing powder-coating

outlining death’s craftsmanship

within the suffocating shroud

meticulously woven 

in the arachnid’s willful hush.

E.A. O'Connell

The Cosmic Hand...

The cosmic hand,

its fingers tapping,

crack the smoky glass atmosphere

masking the evening sky,

allowing the infinite light of tales

mapped for gravity weighted eyes

to trace and read.

In the cold dark,

her body rocking

in an attempt to keep the frost from clinging,

she waits for his hand to write a new story

of stars running amok on life and love,

placing it within the shadow cast across her heart,

an ever burning force of faith and trust

in something greater than that which she has held

and that has held her.

E.A. O'Connell

Storm Circling Inner Ear...(A Gothic Tale) - An Unfinished Work

Storm circling inner ear as equilibrium strike shifts to the right.

Razor’s edge rivals the cut of chaos along the jawline,

spilling dream verse held captive in the root clutch of greedy teeth.   

Domino effect of chills collapse vertebrae in concertina bellow,

breathing a low register whistle exhaled in the windpipe,

punctured by blue fingernails hunting the hollow tapping

of deathwatch beetles burrowed beneath the swallowed tongue. 

Hips click loose sockets as knees crack in twig fracturing.

The splaying of rigid toes and frost-burnt heels in middle March mud,

finding footing in the puddled decay of flesh and veins,

as awkward feet slowly advance in death shift hobble and slide to uneven pavement.

A stagnant well infects the minds of neighbors paying no thoughts

to the rotting corpse lapsed in life as it builds routine movements from hateful judgments,

a machine of their combined ignorance with dead eye follow rapidly circling and consuming the halos of open-thinking youth. 

They once danced in raw bones, screaming flames of passion for life and the people within it,

uninhibited minds and hearts, sought out by fearful villagers,

the torment they built of their own fears clasped in their hands,

as they holler for His hunger to be sated by the sacrificing of their free spirits.

E.A. O'Connell

Tannin Laced Tongue

Tannin laced tongue

tasting the swell of water rich lips

singing hip sway nocturne

under overcast sky of burning want 

Night born hands

mapping routes of winding asphalt

silhouette burying eager body

to unearth fallen star scars in desert oasis 

Fingerprint invisible ink manuscript

pressed into glow of flesh

in hours clocks don’t chime

for a horizon that begs Dawn to keep her leave

E.A. O'Connell

My Feet Carry Me...

My feet carry me on wings of milkweed through the soft brush of leaves

Where sunflowers of yellow and red fan their petals like turntables of summer rhythms

Their faces kiss my thighs, meet me eye to eye, and bow in a grand display

Pollen of a violigo dusts my skin in scents of sunlight and bee’s breath

Under an ocean of skylight reflecting an essence of night

That distorts the hours welcoming swallowtails and cabbage moths to float amid the stars in dance

And earth craters like the moon in full laughter

E.A. O'Connell

Distance Summons A Small Flame...

Distance summons a small flame

Igniting

Inhaling

Dragging a glow that beckons

Thoughts a contrast agent rushing veins

Escaping

Exhaling

Dayglow Pollock dripping skin

In shadows cloaked as companions

Suspension of grey smoke visions

Violin strings tripping under finger foresight

Splayed angels camouflaged in pachysandra height

Sun ablaze a world away

Spinning

Parading

Man of my moon feed me right

Nourishing

Vining

Blooming

E.A. O'Connell

I Will Bleed...

I will bleed

Primavera

Essence of sun soaked lilacs

Soothing their violaceous hue

Under star sight

   Guide me

Under flower moon

    Vine me

E.A. O'Connell

A Gothic Tale...The Vultures Circle... {An Unfinished Work}

The vultures circle, drilling through carbon fiber apparitions, morphing in gradient tempers mirroring the waterfall’s frozen pulsating beauty.

Soon the crows will vacate the tombs from which they perch, smuggling secrets to tap on heads of pins and thread through eyes of needles.

The sparrows will undress the moss, coveting the beetle armor adornments and gossamer webs of eight legged widow-makers that make mausoleums of their insides.

A final hiss from the sun’s molten seduction of the shadows embracing the trees, will summon the creek to silence its song as her spectral hands sink into the seasoned shoreline.

She will step atop the torn asphalt, bare feet gripping black ice as her body drip-dries in subzero chill, her murky lungs leaving her aglow in a strikingly untidy resurrected midwinter death.

Her naked frame firm on pointed toe dead dance, swaying and bending in pastoral shapes along the bridge, as curly willow locks matted with mud and debris, hang sunken promises from each note

hummed in her shunning of peace. 

E.A. O'Connell 

Born of the Aubergine Spirit...

Born of the aubergine spirit, seeped deep within dusted soil

Weeded fruit of iridesce nebula, sleek as silk and black as arterial breath  

Mica wealth of flecked irises, fathoms of tranquil night alit by toil of neuro-hives    

Where have I come?  Where have I been?

Breezes stir hair of juniper, mint, and rosemary earth

Pheromone traces of orange, jasmine, and moss laden stones

I am veins as green as my age, blue as the bells that rang me home

I’m bare feet and bared breasts, palms upturned to receive all light

I was wombed in ancient roots, birthed in venerable salt, raised amongst feral hearts

Who is mother to such wild spring?

A body of knowledge both dead and everlasting

E.A. O'Connell

A Grasshopper Slides...

A grasshopper slides.

Jumping from a rain slick leaf,

sending ripples through beaded raindrops,

-bouncing and exploding-

in the green on green

of a static ozone overlay,

mingling with scorched asphalt.

August’s cocktail of sun shower liberation.
  

I’m bare feet in a black sundress,

standing in a concrete dipping puddle,

swirling toes in innocent thought,

kicking up chrysanthemum blooming waterworks,

catching sunlight in prismatic splendor,  

trickling down my sun soaked legs,

fingers trailing the subtle tickle.

My soul communing with the muddied earth.  

E.A. O'Connell