A Sole Dove

Deeper than the Mariana Trench

more rare than a conch pearl,

fine cognac glistening in baroque,

a candle lighting   the dark.

You are the finest opus,

beautiful birdsong from the crest of a tree.

 

From my periphery

I see you,

hear you in the café.

My breathing stops to listen

for sounds in the space

that held us,

from replete casks

I seek confirmation.

 

A sole dove swoops into

the crown of a tree

quiescent in a forked bough.

The cardinals flew in,

a brilliant male  with his drab mate,

nature’s biased humor.

 

Overcome  by his beauty

she watches him fly away.

The lone dove lingers.

 

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Hunters

Yesterday I  heard the deer hunters deep in the forest,  a shot fired, a thud,  the accompanying echo of  victory.  Their obscenities  echoed back to me.  Last night in a dream they came , chasing me through the thick forest their rebel yells close behind, my bare feet bled and my legs gave way and I fell.  They caught up with me and when I begged for my life they drew  back their bow and arrow and pierced my heart,  buried me beneath skins of other dead animals.

While hiking through the woods we discovered a dead  fawn,  its grieving mother  bedded down a few feet away.  Judging by it’s decomposition it had been there for a couple of days.   Thick  blood formed a veil over its eyes,  caked streams from a gunshot wound.  We broke  some branches and shooed the doe away,  buried her baby  under a tall pine, tossed straw over the resting place and fixed a broken bough into the earth,  wound it with  garlands of vines.

This morning I heard the thud of a bird striking my window.  A bloody mark left on the pane formed a teardrop.   There is still a dark stain on the grass where it fell.  It’s grave is in the shade of  hydrangea bushes.

The garden is bursting with life,  the roses in full bloom,  petals of peonies open wide  to the sun and  fruit spurs shoot forth  from the apple tree.  The earth is in the throes of birth and everything seems possible still I think about the sweet doe and her dead fawn. Does she still grieve?  The woman down the road complains that the deer   frayed her young trees and raided her garden.  Is life as insignificant as the tiny sparrow?

 

image borrowed from google

 

Adam Cohen

Maybe you are already familiar with Adam Cohen’s music.

He is the son of  Leonard Cohen  and  Suzanne Elrod.  Leonard Cohen  passed away November 7, 2016.  Adam is  the ambassador to the Cohen Family Art Exhibits featuring artwork by his father.   He has multiple albums himself, this song is taken from “Like A Man” released in 2012.  He co-produced  Leonard Cohen’s last album “You Want It Darker” in October of 2016 . I love the music and lyrics of Leonard Cohen,  it seems the son did not fall far from the tree.

 

Curvature

Don’t miss this unique and beautiful poetry and reading. Comments closed at HOH

cakeordeathsite

If you aren’t already aware, my collection of 69 inter-related poems and short fictions Motion No. 69 is available for purchase in both e-book and paperback. Below is the penultimate sample, (one more tease then you are just have to buy it) read by myself.

Curvature

Just close your eyes,
and open your legs.

The curvature
of your soft, inner thigh,
leading to the downy, raw hollow
seems to me like a promise—
that the door to paradise will open up
wide enough to swallow whole
my entire being.
Do I dare to enter the void
into which I spent my life staring longingly?
Maybe if I bury myself deep enough inside you,
then a curvature will result
in the seemingly,
inexorable, forward flow of time.
And I can return again
to that place
I never wanted to leave anyway.
Floating in the protective bubble,
in the gloved darkness,

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maybe i’m crazy

We begin making things up  by six or seven, minds of  hummingbirds, we sip from visions and illusion.  If you  desire we will  take you with us to  the  eddy of an ever prodding muse,  dip our wings in her breathtaking vortex of color.

 

Some mornings I Leave as though I am going to work.  Instead I walk downtown to meld with the chaotic masses, their eyes infused with survival, mouths of relentless whispers  fade as they vanish with the crowd, the smell of pungent cologne and strong coffee is  left,  shadows and scents imprinted  on the back of my eyes and  clinging to my nostrils.
I bring a flower for you  from the garden, eat an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory makes me rub  against you in search of  that emotional trigger, the wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. At night I stay awake after you go. I can’t write where we make love, not just to annoy you.  When I write myself empty with meaningless devastation  then I may sleep.   Even I know I’m crazy because it all makes sense.

 

 

 

Winter Song

The sun has lost its domain,

waves of snow birds shroud its light.

A handful of starlings huddle on bare branches

tiny in their fixed feathers

they could fit into the

palm of a hand.

Their fragile song suspended

in frozen breath,

they sing for the reach of an outstretched hand

clinging to a red-tailed kite

above a field of sunflower faces

or wildflowers in full bloom.

 

in my favorite dream

I walk beside you on snow swept sidewalks shivering from too much life.  Your fingers wrap around mine as my hand clings to your shoulder shielding me from the chaos of rushing traffic.  Snuggled against you I am captivated by your impossibly sexy voice discussing note worthy events that fill your day.   Surreptitiously my mind slips away to desirous play where you sip honey from my swollen lips releasing urgent butterflies from my rib cage. At our favorite café you order tea,  for me,  hot cocoa brimming with frothy cream that  your eager lips flick from mine.  In this realm all cares  cease to exist past  the prism of our window where  in the soft glow  snow flakes dissolve into a light drizzle and we softly fade into  a parallel world of lovers.