sun burned a hole

in birth of midnight sky

leaving traces


indigo twinkle of dying night

the sound of dark


the doors and windows shut

earth residing


we retreat to familiar warmth

heat of your breath


my bare neck

only one thing it means

my body blooming wet

silence speaks volumes

rolling in the dark


new emotions moan

the extinguishing of sun

our fire, skin on skin


through space

we absorbed the sun

it burned away our sins

emptied of restraint

fueled by cosmic force


in the storm

red flares

we burst


~ Em ~



As Waking Dream

sitting shoreside wondering
just how many: 
colors — dreams — days — roads — words — feelings
not yet discovered…

while curling waves beat gray
the shells shimmered on microscopic rainbow rocks
and crabs scattered over kelp ropes
from daybreak to dusk, from head to heart
lids close in hope for answers lost

for answers lost,
close eyes and see.


answers never come as one expects
paint your own picture
forge unmapped paths

for it’s not the colors that aren’t there
it’s not the dreams and days gone
it’s not barricaded roads and blocked words
or feelings fleeting out of reach

— it’s the spirit unopened to life’s song

the wind churns a painter’s palette
mixing unlikely blends
the soaring soul spreads carte blanche wings
along carte blanche white matter canvas
and with every swoop a new shade

until upon opening already open eyes

the view…a masterpiece

the world a museum

an art as vivid

as waking dream



~ Emily C.




“What does the air in Italy smell like?”
she asked.

He, the American writer in Naples,

“…Of lavender
and damp ancient clay.”

She fell hard. His words made love
to her thirsty heart.

Their words together, an electric storm,

The kind of connection that begs

Two souls briefly converge,
realizing their limits.

She will never smell lavender again
without thinking of him, of Italy

and what could have been.

~ EC



deep dream
oral lick, scream
half asleep, half awake
writhing to the swell
engorged heat down below
catch myself moaning, panting
semi-aware of the climaxing
heavy breath, in body’s wet
rolling roar, unstoppable
torture of the best kind
orgasmic release
of freest kind
no holds

~ EC


*It’s not just men who have orgasms in their sleep.


One Reality

The murder awoke me.

It awoke me from the dream of the secret room with alabaster dancers, hidden behind mahogany doors that parted open upon their world. There, with no audience, they dance, separately, like statues adorning the pillars flanking the left, the right. There was no music, oddly…just motion and a bluish stage light casting a glow over scarred hardwoods.

Another room to the right of the entrance held more dancers. The women wore gauze of white that did not hide their form, their nakedness bared, the fabric only an afterthought. As the women rose, the men descended, like waves fluctuating to the silent sound of dead music of the past that only they could hear.

Mesmerized, I stayed, hoping that this was not a dream. Wondering who brought me here, and why.

The murder awoke me. The throaty cackles swarmed overhead. Disoriented, I searched for their location. Naked, I rose. Blinds lifted, drapes drawn, uncaring of being observed.

The crows staged themselves in the pines in the yard. They talked at length as they dove and soared from one power line to the pine and back again. One crow was missing a large section of wing, backlit by the milky white clouds that dropped steady rain. Unaffected by it, they held their convention, marked only with an interruption here or there by a robin in the holly tree where he defiantly held his position bathing in raindrops that fell from the red berries.

I wondered who brought them here and why.

Dozens of crows. Dozens of dancers.

One pair of green eyes, one pair of ears.

One dream, one reality.

~ E

***My morning. A true story. I even recorded the crows and rain for you…

Bad Dream

Why sleep, I wonder…
when the nightmare
exists day or night
eyes open, eyes closed

same difference
in my mind

I don’t want to sleep
if it means I have to wake
to the same realization


a hell on earth
a raw shock
that I, again,
must discover
it wasn’t

just a
bad dream

~ Emily Clapper