Resonance by Nicole Barth [7/26/11]

Bright eyes, trace the skies and sing me

your hidden soliloquy.

This drumming noise is deafening behind the curtains of my chest.

And it starts when you're around...

My rabbit heart will choreograph

the unsteady rhythm of my breaths as your smile

washes over me .

Your fish eye captures me in an unexpected moment—

drenched in a sea of Birch trees and glass water.

We wrap ourselves around the Lipstick Building

and make our way into the layers of light.

Your theories rest against the walls of my mind

as the constant stream rinses out the chaos of negativity.

Your hand in mine.

Sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell.

De La Vega Dreaming by Nicole Barth [7/12/11]

I found myself in Central Park South,

having caressed the velvet oak

and coal of a carriage horse.

Drunk on the perfume of hoof polish and oats,

my feet carried me behind the hand-crafted walls of the southern entrance—

my fingers skimming the cracks between the infinite Granite stones all the while.

I've been sucked out of the present

and thrust into the caverns of my mind.

Here, in the middle of tar streets and blaring truck horns...
 underneath the towering cubicles and the repression of the daily grind:

a secluded tree.

It's all too familiar as I catch my breath

and picture myself sitting on the green bench
—whose paint has been chipping away for the past six years—

and sketching. 

A tale of two trees so enamored, they'd melded into one another?

Or a rejection letter that had cut him to the quick?

He'd reached out to her and twisted back in on himself,

curving and retracting his feelings down to the very trunk.

A tortured soul, or an egocentric life form?

I'll never know.

A violin sings,

a second-hand serenade kissing my earlobes.
Into the land of Andrea Bocelli love songs and midnight laughter.

And before I knew it, I'd been led into a daydream more lovely than reality.

I'm back in Spain, skipping on the lake in a chiffon dress,

the crescent moon glancing at itself in the mirror. 

Italian Suitcase by Nicole Barth [7/9/11]

I've emptied the jars of myopic dreams

and poorly thought out plans

and given myself space.

Space for flip-flop tan lines and Italian accents.

For gut-busting pasta con ragù in Emilia-Romagna,

for callused fingers running through salty hair.

Escaping from treadmills,

I'm the runaway robin peddling on a rusted bike.

Creaking gears and heart shaped dimples.

Free from car exhaust and garbage trucks,

Nonna Lina's garden calls my name.

A place where telepathy and hand-written letters are 

the only form of communication.

I'm laughing under the Magnolia tree.