In a sad cafe poems die.
we sit near a window,
watch lovers vanish into scenarios
where we promise to meet them.
Still, we remain here
cutting our ink into impassive tables
holding on to faded lovers.
Secrets speak over absinthe and
cigarettes, tinkling spoons, and lusty moans,
those trespassers of life we cling too.
When the smoke clears we will spend
our hours writing to ourselves.
art by Fabian Perez
A beautiful tribute to Gigi by Resa. I tried to capture her with words but she’s already poetry. 🌺
Did you ever channel a white cat, a wedding gown and Jean Harlow?
Well then you know it comes out an Art Gown, and that Art Gown is dedicated to;
Georgiann Carlson from Rethinking Life blog. Georgiann’s blog is full of art, Chicklets, creative writing, flowers, Chicago, Emily and opinions.
Deciding it must be a Harlow 1930’s style movie star gown, dictated a bias cut.
Admittedly, being a rank amateur in working with bias, I was cursed with many problems. Nonetheless, it’s a challenge I’ve wanted to tackle for a long time.
Designers, like Chanel and Vionnet, championed the anti-corset generation. Finally, women could feel more comfortable in their clothes.
At a liquidation sale, I found an 18″ wide bordeur lace for $0.50/yard.
What costs $0.50 these days? I bought 75 yards.
Thinking like a cat, I decided to shred the lace.
Using scissors for claws, I deconstructed the…
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Leonid Afremov “Rains Rustle”
Trinette Reed photography
When the sunset casts its crimson
glow across the horizon, I think of you.
The ocean is thick with salt , the sand
a sculpture of an ambivalent tide.
I am pared down to dark and light.
I unfasten our keepsake filled with
swords and sighs to coax alive the
brightest stars that I might find you
in wind furled sails.
The sea is a moon struck epiphany and
with the merest chance of finding you
I cast my dreams to an incoming storm as
Though I am the rain with nothing to
remember or forget.
“Lost Boat” by Widyantara at Deviant Art
Cactus Wren — Photo-Artistry by kenne
— Soren Kierkegaard
You are getting closer,
I hear the crunch of soft sand,
the skitter of stones beneath your boots.
Your scent passes through my parted lips
stinging the flare of my nostrils and the choke
in my throat while your hands of steel butterflies
float over proud bones luring me gently
to the killing fields.
Your fingers are the scent of tanned leather,
I lick them like fresh flesh wounds.
Your feathered crop gently brushes my shoulders,
no one can save me now, there is nothing to do,
because you have always known how
to break wild horses.
She wishes to fade away, to be less than nothing, unborn. A leaf on a tree in late October, falling to the shadowy earth, devoured by the mud of the murmuring forest floor.
At dinner she sits across from the smiling man. Later they retreat to a larger room that is flooded by honey-colored light where he reads from the book, moving from life to death, from lead to gold. Light ning strikes the corner of his blinking eye, the twitch of his crooked smile. He warns her of saintly heroes, how she must fight against all temptation, live in his light to hear the angelic chime of bells that summon her to kneel and remain beside his benevolent being.
At dusk he takes her hand and leads her through a wooded path to an arbor where she must undress for she is not pure and he is good and wise and knows all holy things. An invisible cherubim takes her hand and leads her back through the same woods to the house, high on the hill, it’s madness and despair sleeping. The squirrels, birds, and white tail deer know fear and hide away.
