ID 23

It was a delight collaborating with Mr. Cake @ https://cakeordeathsite.wordpress.com/.  I hope you enjoy our poem. Thank you Mr. Cake.  For fun we have left it to you to decide who has written Part 2 and Part 3.

cakeordeathsite

Toyen-The Unfolding Screen

I recently suggested to Miss Heart of House of Heart that we collaborate together on a particular hare-brained idea. I am delighted to say that the gracious Miss Heart agreed to indulge my whim and displayed not inconsiderable patience with so idle and tardy a rogue. The result is the following poem, one half written by the vastly talented Miss Heart and the other part by myself. Like any work of the imagination it can be read in a number of ways or fashions. Suffice to say that there are many conflicting versions of events, that the same incidents can recur in different locations with a varying cast of characters and that all you may surmise doesn’t necessarily dispel the mystery.

2

The autumn leaves have begun to fall.
Late October London is covered in hues of orange and purple.
On my bench by the…

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to get to you

House of Heart

In this dream  my arms

are the branches of trees

and you  my  nourishment.

Cut me down to a boat.

My  spine is a sturdy keel,

my hair  unfurled sails. 

A lighthouse is my only lamp

for the stars have fallen into 

your hands.

If the sea does not capitulate,

red sails are  cast into a cleft

too wide  for me to cross,

I was trying to get to you.

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Marrakesh

House of Heart

a soft breeze carries  the sweet scent of  cactus blossom,

wet with copper  clay we commune to life again.

 I am the quenching rains of  spring,  the  night-fall shadows saturating your body.  

Nomad  of  the desert,

the taste of Marrakesh on your tongue.

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Symbolic Meadows of Summer

House of Heart

This Summer

I will forego silk for cotton, forsake heavy perfume for oil of wildflowers

 indulge  feminist Left bank-Dada, preferring originality over sophistication.

Escape life’s boredom in bohemian Paris, lost in the chaos of  turbulent adventures.

We will lie down  on fluttering meadows coiled between skyscrapers,

soar   star studded mountains, descend into  green grottoes.

   on clouds of Aristophanes  you will watch over me as I dream my  deep satin fantasies, 

your breathless voice bends to my listening ear, translates the * Song of Songs for me.

 

*The Song of Songs” by Hermann Sudermann

 

 Artist unknown 

 

 

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Tree

Wunderbar!

dithyrambs & ditties

In the evening
the tree goes sleeping
nature dreams

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River Worn

House of Heart

At the bed of a murky river

I found you wet and worn,

a rare gem beaten to the silt

beneath the hooves of a wild horse.

Like a secret,  as sacred as a poem ,

somehow  holy I  held  you in my palm

rubbed you smooth and honed,

a refined diamond in my hand.

At the bay of obsession you slipped from my grip

lost forever to the inlets gaping mouth.

How weak we were at the final kiss

something we wanted to be strong for.

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Hacked Again

My blog has been hacked again.  I will be changing it to a pass worded site.

woman waiting

Lips wet with mist,  a kiss of breeze and

water grass, touched in diaphanous dreams.

The strains of  a sonata stream

like pin point diamonds through rivers

of bloods sweet wildness.

Weeping clusters of allegories

spill from the tongues of lovers,

the flower of a song  blue playing

with fire.

The thief of dawn shatters the night

lights the walls of silence.

Hear the firewood snap and hiss,

the heat of  burning need.

I am cloaked in awakening

but am I too late?

Art by Liu

 

cold…

Rethinking Life

I’ve heard it said
that memories
and photographs
can bring comfort
to those who have
lost their loves
but those are lies
death makes sure of that
you can’t touch memories
and the person in a photograph
doesn’t age
or laugh
or hold you
nothing is left behind
nothing that can put you back together
and all the silly things people say
are like icicles
falling to the ground
and shattering
for when your love is gone
it’s always winter

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Wolves

I am sleeping less,

roused by wingbeats of Boreal Owls

circling ancient Cypress,

gripping knotty branches with a  clutch

of talons .

When I  close my eyes fists of  wind

breech  my seclusion, erupt through

unbound curtains of dark recollections

that  vibrate through my hemispheres.

A soft breeze carries me through the

valley to a  moonlit hillside of sweet lea.

A silver wolf lies down  beside me.

He is the scent of golden meadows and

his eyes are the color of an eastern sky.