Estuary of Flowers

In dreams

I want to fly but fall like

a silent prayer.

My limbs are an anchor

as I slip beneath the surface.

Opened mouthed my lungs expand,

struggling palms lie flat

as gentle waves of the river rock me.

Seaweed strands of hair mingle

with the sigh of my breath,

my only thing of value.

Everything beautiful is here,

all that was lost.

Birds chorus to the stones.

A thousand warriors  rest in an

estuary of flowers.


art by Abel Tasman “Blue Bay”









They settled a shack down the dirt road.

She came on Tuesday to help with the laundry.

Her sparkling eyes glowed when she

laughed from her belly.

He baled  hay and mended fences,

his rough  hands ached and bled.

At the end of the day we served dinner on

the  porch with white linen and sweet tea

in bell jars to ease the sweltering heat.

From the dining room table we could

barely hear what they were saying.

When she and I  were alone she said he

drank their money away with the

children needing shoes.

I gave her a sack of apples and

slipped a dollar in her pocket.

Fall came in brown and gold

like skin and teeth.

Smoke hung heavy in the air that night.

They  found him swaying

from a tree like an October leaf,

thick calluses covered his hands.

They don’t hurt anymore.









a summer sea

Folded beneath white caps

rosy crystals stack in layers,

letting go  their hold-fast

seashells loosen their grip.

Released from the rushing tide

tendrils of   slippery seaweed

catch among the sea oats,

prisoners of the dunes.

A shroud of melon sky climbs down

the sweeping vista.

Seafaring specters bob among the swells

drifting apparitions devoured by the horizon.

Gulls hover between sea and sky

wings plunge in and out of azure

their throaty caws console the lonely sea.



metaphors like birds

Lying back on  clouds capricious birds tweet

into my  ear so I open my  empty palm

expecting metaphors to light  like songbirds.

From here I can see the river Delta,

dark green tarpaulin stretched across the hemisphere.

Murky waters reflect  gray skies and broken hearted

memories  flow past with  fleeting clouds.

Just before sleep captures my mind I consider

metaphysical nonsense.

You  say I am your guardian  angel and the warmth

of my breasts your confessional.

Together we Suspend above the boredom of life

sinking in ruins of  madness.

art by Karol Bak



A Poem

I wrote this just for you

I want it to be perfect.

Its verses clear as a summer sky

carnation clouds ascending.

May I lean back in your rose colored

swing until it is time to go?

I don’t want to own,

I just want to be  here.





Translation By Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi

Ich schrieb dieses Gedicht
nur für dich.
Ich möchte, dass es perfekt sei,
mit Versen, hell wie ein
ein Sommertag.
Wallende Wolken,
aufsteigende Nelken
aus einem Garten, den ich erschaffen habe.
Lehn dich zurück in meine Rosenblüte,
eine farbige Schaukel und
geb dich Tagträumen hin,
bis es Zeit ist zu gehen.
Ich möchte, dass du regierst …
Ich will nicht besitzen,
nur dabei sein.

she doesn’t speak french

On sleepless nights

I stroll the left bank in black sequined heels,

My eyelids heavy with sparkling glitter.

I find you there among the art,

tear through our veins,

settle in the pool of our hearts.


Candles flicker their last warning in a

dark cafe where we sway like

winged  willows to a song far away.


Then you are gone,

a Modigliani reclining.

Never hearing  my whisper,

“je t’aime

the only french I know.


Image result for art by Mark Spain

Mark Spain Art









When I rub against you

you stroke my ears and tail.

If I stretch and softly purr

you run your fingers through my fur.

Your touch is warm like freshly dried

socks that I toss and chase.

Without my claws I am helpless

but when I am threatened you

always rescue me.

There’s so much I want to tell you

but not a word comes from my throat.






Photo by Heart