the Sad Cafe

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.

 

 

Man lighting Cigarette II

art by Fabian Perez

 

 

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Mademoiselle Emily

A beautiful tribute to Gigi by Resa. I tried to capture her with words but she’s already poetry. 🌺

Art Gowns

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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Summer with Burroughs

House of Heart

Remember the summer
we were obsessed with Burroughs?
Anything familiar like the sound of far off
thunder close enough to subdue the mad-paced
hours. Something  inciting,  a strike of lightning.
The scent of combustion ready to ignite.
Everything electric that made us come alive.
Our hearts caught between whale song and sigh
spontaneous thunder and intermittent quiet
Sporadic  as a summer storm.

Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”

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Cave People

Tonight in my nest of stones I have not slept.
Through the walls my neighbors fight over how
best to spend their time as it silently slips through
the space between their fingers.
As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be
present for the hours left.
When the  dawn  climbs above the ocean I can see
that deep amber on the shore,  the color of
 my lover’s eyes when  aroused,  waning to hues
of   gold that glint  in my half empty glass.
In the unkempt night I rearrange decaying books
wander halls of memories pillaging my mind.

 

 

Trinette Reed photography

with nothing to remember

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

Breaking Horses

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.

 

girls-horses-500-3110

 

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cherubim

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.