Frigid by Nicole Barth [8/14/11]

She never wanted fake flowers.

Maybe it’s the way the dust settles on the tulip petals
or how the sickly stems never seem to catch
the light that trickles in at 4 p.m.

Slouching in the cracked leather of a mistreated couch,
she wonders why no one ever told her that
the loneliest people are the ones
who always speak the truth.

Spindle fingers wrap around
the cord of a silver rotary phone as 

she gnaws on her cuticles. 

Hollow eyes blink mechanically from a gaunt face.
Busy signal.

The Echoes by Nicole Barth [8/12/11]

She’s the kind of girl who will step outside to be alone.


Lost in her daydreams,
her olive oil eyes skim over the sea of concrete
as her wandering heart beat keeps time to the click-clack of
impatient taxi cabs lunging over speed bumps.


Yesterday’s rain water is now  a looking glass
as the girl made of lilac lullabies is overtaken
by the scent of shaved grass that brushes past her lungs.


A rusted pocket watch hangs from her neck.
Within it resides a watercolor sky and a fistful of pennies she has yet to discover.


And all the little screws that have struggled to keep
her restless hands from twitching are coming undone as
she glues herself to a park bench.


Flustered fingers leaf through a never ending stream of
dog-eared portraits,
poorly hidden smirks
and imagined lyrics before finding
a blank page.


The watch’s hands have frozen.
Trembling, she tilts the page and scrawls a confession.
Underlined twice: your smile.

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. 

Respiro by Nicole Barth [6/18/11]

Welcome to the new exhibition.

The portrait hangs proudly in the center of the room,

as its paint strokes pull you in.

Glistening, the brine forced her to shed

the lacquer of hesitation.

Embraced by the endless warmth of the sand, she exhales.

Graceful fingers patiently reach out for you as the sun

kisses her burnt sienna skin.

Tresses the color of smoldering branches

transform themselves into Spanish moss.

Emerald eyes question you from an oval face.

She smirks, all the while radiating tranquility.

The secret of her new beginning is hers and hers alone.

Tambourine Lover by Nicole Barth [6/9/11]

Don't tell me you can't hear me through the looking glass,

when I can feel your every move underneath my skin.

The mood is set.

You already know what's next.

You're dancing between mirages and silhouettes.

No teasing, you waited long enough.

Dancing between the cracks in the walls—

feel the treble course through your fingertips.

A sip of air;

you float through the corridor of dreams.

Hip cocked.

The shadow's eyes are on you.