I dreamt of a moth, large wings speckled like a hen's brown egg, each inked with an eye, the iris tobacco stain

It hovered above me, above the bed I lay within, swift wings brushing against my flesh, leaving a fine rich powder, henna patterns that mapped an unknown route upon my hands

Sepia shadows swayed in the warm breeze, directing the moth to the window that opened to my garden, sun drained hydrangea still bold in the globes of parchment petals, deep coffee grounds rubbed into their veins

The moth followed this breeze into the bronze halo of midday, pulling with it a thread, tugging at my slumber, stirring my eyes in a flutter, the ceiling above me adorned with an imprint of your hand, around mine the impression of a tie that binds

E.A. O'Connell 

The Winged

Butterfly

Her colors cosmic in motion

Sweeping to the sun

Hovering

Nectar laced tongue

Her cocoon a dose of midnight

She must break clean

Moth

Muted design in camouflage

Under cover of night

Waiting

Clinging to silent trees

Her cocoon a window to morning

She breaks not on the seam

E.A. O'Connell

Autumn Morn

Soft sod applaud
Geranium bold in face
Heated pink petals
Sugared with frost
Standing knee high
Blooms with pride
No fear born
In early winter’s desire
Frozen fate

E.A. O'Connell

Morning: Part II

Color has a taste and a morning song as well
Pink Himalayan sea salt
In hot bath water
Lotus blossom body
In frangipani oil
Fingers mingling with silken petal boats
Soft papaya lush on the edge of the tub

Sakura symphony of Lemongrass sinks within

E.A. O'Connell

Morning: Part I

Soft sueded pink hums a low glow
Sweetpea petals and seashell tunnels come to mind
Color has a taste and a morning song as well
Nesting on my windowsill

In topaz clarity and dusty earth clouds

E.A. O'Connell

I Knew A Poet

I knew a poet once

We were teenagers sharing corridors

He wrote with trench deep truth

Effortless and shaming

He was poet and poem

And painfully beaten by a society that broke men of this beauty

A handful knew of his damning talent

And any speculation that surfaced was eradicated promptly

Some secrets need to be buried he’d say

He was hardened and built for other uses

The anvil that could suffer for another’s trade

Bearing the searing flame and pounding hammer

But never acknowledged as it’s own art in sheer design and purpose

I knew this very poet once

And the pounding he accepted as the fuel for greatness
Still beats rhythm in my head 

E.A. O'Connell

November Fire

November vixen
Whistle in the sultry wind
Raining soft cleanse
Free falling, building steam
Tickling exposed neck 
With distant whispers
Trickling down my back
Fires were lit overnight
In toxic ripe berries hanging
And in maple plum 
The flames have begun the stretch
Soon to engulf
Ignited in the passion of time limited

E.A. O'Connell