and this is not about the line of duty,
but the bloodline within the heart.
In love, there is a bleeding over,
a letting out, or letting in.
Let me in on this, Snow, for six feet from the heart
is better than six feet below.
Below this un-handed world,
life is a myth: words are re-imagined,
into a rigorous tease and a learned dark.
You know, there is more blast, here, in the heart.
My world is strange enough with its ifs and its elses
The eager wild is what awards us.
The musted love anews.
Don’t let the tender, doom.
© Umansky 2014
I will be wide-flung in the next
there will be no need for signing in
I just want to grace it. I want to swing heads blind. I want to de-clutter the expectation. I want to objectify the past. I want to cast the plunge. I want to sun the hours. I want to courage the empty and then, scat away.
This would cause an end, or broaden waters, but the moment passes.
I am not seen in what turns.
I am one of yours
We can share the filth.
till, we lift off.
The stone of a moment is a foot beneath
© Umansky 2014
Don has the authority and Peggy has the emotion, but that’s in the past. She wears the pants and Don is crying alone in his apartment. Peggy lives in the not-knowing, each breath a gasp. Don lives “in the now” and “the know.”
His failures are a ladder, and she climbs it wrung by wrung. Her hands reach up but her feet hesitate to follow.
They are two parts of a stumbling whole. Their pasts, a splintered truth.
One small tear at an ankle, could bring them to their knees.
When Peggy needs Don, he is glad to be needed, but it is the needing that desires, not the work. The needing is a haunt
Peggy asks, “what do I know about motherhood” and Don takes a moment. He simmers in their intellects. He lets her stew.
She looks at him: “you love this,” and he does, but not in that way.
He loves what she is capable of. She is Manhattan. She is growing and growing. Her arms are pulsing with the blood of the next century.
When they dance to Sinatra, it is like every childhood memory they wish they had, except she is not a child and Don is not her father.
There is a tenderness there, in their package of equals.
Their sale is not dependent on their cleverness.
Their sale is not dependent on their skill.
Their sale is dependent on their love.
And when Peggy puts her head on Don’s shoulder, and the moon outside is wide-brimmed, their love is pinned in the stars of the city. Their love is based on their independence. They both only know one way, my way.
© Umansky 2014Follow @lady_bronte
I will fight injustice with justice, she says.
and, I bring you a choice.
But what if she said, you will obey me?
That pride is a pit
and Khaleesi is no peach.
Brute. Burden Beast
She is Bullied, Brazen and Bare.
She has scrabbled with man, horse and spirit.
What is fire-born can be fire-ridden,
for, one hand has five fingers
One digit could lead the others astray
This hand is reaching up
as she is of the air.
She says, I will see each of their faces
When she says each, she means all.
What if, in the moment that she leans in close
to the lens, there is a smear of sap
What then of womanhood?
A mother of dragons
is still a mother.
Her stare is blue:
a fire, not catching.
a stunted sun
a contorted kiss
a vein left turned
this hand gives allegiance
and this hand, the heart.
and this heart beats
with the roar of a wingspan
so big it could cover us all
© Umansky 2014
small girls dream awhile
the most are slipped graces
and many graces are slipped,
Yes. There would come a rope
or a lady who takes heartbreaks
or a lady who saddles ill-lucks
all storms since you, have given in
I have been operating from nothing,
without no thing in hand, but these.
As a shelving of moving moss,
I am ever on the lookout for
a gorgeous sentence gone
any gorgeous thing
mine is not one common.
Tyrion Says ( inspired by Game of Thrones)
I wish I was the monster you all thought I was,
and I think, how we all return to our places.
you can see the gods clutch, as he waits for a low sky,
for a cornered hope
….I’ve been on trial my whole life, he says…
and nails the iron tip on the tooth
I think: Jury, is a slug more slant for its slurp?
The earthworm, less for having more?
A sleeping evil, though dumb on night, is still an evil,
but Tyrion is no heathen, though he is slight.
He says, I wish I had killed him
but even the dark has its blossoms,
and his are green-tipped and tart
This is the law of the land, my friend,
The saw cuts right though an ugly thing
blood is ugly but pure
I saved you all from a monster, he says,
[and he did, but that’s another matter]
Tyrion is another kind of monster,
a kinder monster.
This one is sore-footed;
this one is lion-hearted;
this one is high-watered in good.
I want to say, this will soon be a time long ago,
so, play on,
© Umansky2014Follow @lady_bronte