Four Years, a Tassel and a Kiss by Nicole Barth [5/27/11]

Fear can stop your loving,

love can stop your fear.

But it's not always that clear.

Streets feel strange.

The smirking tulips and lilac lullabies

caress the air

as I make my way down

Central Park West

in my burgundy cap and gown—

three inches too long.

You paced the corridors of my mind

as my calloused hand met another and another

until my blushing cheeks

were coated with fuchsia, primrose and crimson lipstick.

Endless embraces. A river of memories,

and your boat floats among them.

Lonely Dove by Nicole Barth [5/14/11]

You're staring blankly as

 the cracks in your window sill 

accumulate the dust 

of faded euphoria.

Is it ever me you're thinking of?

Or do the car horns muffle

the blaring of unanswered questions

shredding your mind?

Five blank pages in the sketchbook. 

 The ink stains my fingertips as
 I trace the scrawled confessions.

Do you breathe in the memory

of late night laughter and dropped calls?

Vainglory, Vice and Victimization by Nicole Barth [5/3/11]

Flabbergasted by visions of fame,

the full-figured puppet feigned victimization by a brute

nearly three times her age.

A victim—or merely a coy game of cat and mouse?

Some say the tempestuous fear vibrating through

the ribcage of his faithful wife—

merely

a heavier psychosis

and a warped view on her life.

Cementing herself to cracked,

hardened ground

wouldn't have shielded her

from the black tables spinning endlessly

in the room of her flaming suspicion.

The affair of a life time—supposedly.

An irresistible muse for portraits of almond eyes

and indiscreet noses.

Call it symbolism, call it irresistible inspiration.

Call it the jagged edges of betrayal.  

**This poem was inspired by the marriage of Olga and Picasso and his torrid love affair with Marie-Thérèse--a girl who was three times younger than Picasso at the time. 

Posada Pintada by Nicole Barth [5/3/11]

The liquid sea of memories,

strumming its notes through the familiar

strings of the harp playing in the abuela's

old soul.

The pleating in her worn face

holds the kaleidoscope

of conversations, wine and suspended shadows

dancing across the

celestial bliss in the distance.

The amber hill is coated

in the exhales of a couple at peace.

Underneath the ink-stained plague

of expectations, duty and tradition is a man.

Resplendent in the vitality of a new day.

Drenched in a peacock shawl,

his confidant and faithful spouse

dons the pride

of that elegant bird

as a silent flute echoes the

unspoken words and half-hidden smiles

between them.

**inspired by Picasso's "A Spanish couple in front of an Inn"

Viscous Fear [5/3/11]

This keyboard knows my name.

Hushed, pregnant with expectation.

The room oscillates—

a victim to the tension shrieking

its way through my shoulders,

my spine,

my trembling fingers.

Fists of unknown gargoyles

kneed their way into the lining

of my stomach.

Lack of oxygen. Bleeding cuticles.

Layer upon layer:

anxious mutterings

and clacking of keys,

all pouring themselves

down

my tightening throat.

Lurking in the corridors of my clouded mind.

To what end? To what beginning?