The Hour Glass

Dip your fingers in oceans of light

tiny moons in outstretched hands

a remembrance of our open palms

sifting through transparent time

powerless to reverse the hours

Neruda’s “Ode To Time” (excerpt)

My eyes have burned out in your beauty

but you are my eyes.

I perhaps exhausted your breasts

beneath my kisses but the world knows

your secret splendor is my happiness.

Love, what does it matter that time,

the very time that raised two flames,

two waving heads of wheat,

my body and your gentleness,

tomorrow will hold them safe

Gurkski: stanza 30

dithyrambs & ditties

“Out of a misty dream,“ recited Lee Remick Dowson’s poem, “our path emerges for a while …“ but that was no dream: a nightmare it was and the ocean knows no time.

Ebbing and flooding and ebbing and flooding again

erasing the traces of sorrow by washing away all castles built on sand.

And the ocean is life in which all spit-out Jonahs are to drown.

Sooner, later, but finally always.

I have not made my mind up

who to trust

a lover liquid or one of flesh.

Either way I ‘ll be and remain a slave.

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The Sad Cafe V

The Sad Café …

Notes From Afar

There is nothing in the back of this cafe. It sits right on the margin between the edge of the world and infinite possibilities.

Gloria Naylor, Bailey’s Café

Image Source: Pinterest

A Love Story by Holly Hunter and Hyperion Sturm

Incantations
By Holly Hunter

When all that I want is so far away
and all that is left is solitude,
I chant your name through warm
currents of breath or sharp ice
shadows of entities.
I’ve etched my likeness into the stars
a dreamer in fields of flowers
a bouquet of affection fragile jonquils
pressed against a heart.
Tethered to cloud banks of silvery sleep
we meet in fantasies and the
sweetness of a lover’s suffering

❂❂❂

The Sad Cafe seemed to show its age. The awning was dulled by the accumulation of time and the brass handle no longer glittered in the light cast by…

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The Sad Cafe IV

Hyperion Sturm and Rene Hunter …
Thank you Dan, it was a pleasure writing with you.

Notes From Afar

The very essence of romance is uncertainty.

Oscar Wilde

Image by Michael & Inessa Garmash

A Love Story by Holly Hunter and Hyperion Sturm

She Doesn’t Speak French
By Holly Hunter

On sleepless nights
I stroll the left bank in black sequined heels
My eyelids are heavy with smoky glitter.
Among the art I find you
your essence pierces my veins
settles in the pool of my heart
soft lights flicker their last warning in the sad cafe where
like willows, we sway to long-forgotten love songs
then you are gone, a Modigliani reclining, never hearing
Je t’aime, the only French I know.

Five Years Earlier

Autumn leaves have begun to fall. Late October, London is ablaze in hues of orange and purple. On my bench, by the river, I daydream that I am an adolescent reptile escaped from Kafka’s Die Verwanlung, laid back…

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A Winged Bird

I am who I have always been

a shiver of soft reeds beside the river

or the cascade of  a waterfall.

Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn sky

gathering their kind they circle

back for me.

I can scarcely bear the

splendor of the world,

its wonder humbles

the wisp  that is me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue,

stunned by the promise

of a  red dawn.

Elegant trees  lift

their mighty arms,

grand  gods host creatures

large and small.

Their noble crowns filled

with a cornucopia of life.

I want to sail across the sea

tiny fleck that is me,

a winged bird   bearer of

no possession,

a fragment of the universe

art by Amy Judd (represented by Hicks Gallery)

I wrote this for you

I wrote this poem for you

I want it to be perfect

its verses as bright as a

summer day in a garden

we created among billows

of blossoms  ascending carnations

lean back in our rose colored swing

while I surrender to a dream

until it’s  time for me 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.

Live from Manchester – U.K.

Resa and the Professional Moron… and the Beach Boys.

Graffiti Lux Art & More

Direct from the offices of Professional Moron

Every trick in the book,

All that he can find,

To make you laugh so hard you cry, and blow your mind,

Yet, just when you think you have his hysterical humour number down, he dazzles you with: a serious in depth book, movie, music, artist, video game or sports review!

I, the Queen of Hearts, hereby charge the esteemed editor of Professional Moron, Mr. Wapojif, (aka ‘Oron, so nicknamed by Resa & ‘Olly – ‘Ouse of ‘Eart)

with recipe crimes involving Marmite and Bovril!

Don’t let his charm and smooth talking ways make you pick any number, say a two,

He’ll always have an Ace up his sleeve!

You never know what you’ll find in an alley. Look, I found a paste-up of a promo shot of The Beach Boys taken in Manchester Sq. London, 1964, a mere 4…

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Sad Cafe III

The Sad Cafe Part Three…

Notes From Afar

When I lifted my eyes to you, suddenly your heart showed me my way

Paul Neruda

Image Source: Victor Bauer

The Sad Cafe III

A love story by Holly Hunter and Hyperion Sturm

The Letter
By Holly Hunter

I left a message for you in a book.It is like me to mark provocative phrases,to shake them out in ponderous verses.Do not read too much in the fallout,the notes in the border are for nostalgia’s sake.I dreamt of you again last night,
my adversary,
whose aura I barely recall.My suffering is not in knowing what was realbut what was not.

❂❂❂

Ten Years Earlier

The Library at the University of Paris, the Sorbonne, amplifies loneliness in ancient manuscripts along high walls. It’s islands of tables, worn sofa’s, and plush chairs remind Renate of her isolation in a place brimming with students. Her…

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sun and moon

Your lips against my skin

make my bones smolder.

You are subtle like the imprints

of fingertips pressed along

my thighs, dissolving into

one another.

Can you read my life with

my heart beat in your palm

with Scorpio eyes recycled

like the mist of morning rain.

we are sun and moon falling

can love survive us?

art by William Oxer

Harvesting Time

In Sue’s garden…

Dreamwalker's Garden

These weeks and months are just flying by so quickly these days, I hardly turn around and another week has gone by. But that in itself is a good thing, as I live in the now of moments, and to think too far into the future right now with all that is happening within our world only makes us anxious as we see what is unfurling before us.

A Mornings Harvest

This was a mornings harvest of tomatoes, Carrots and cucumbers , two varieties. The green ones as normal top middle and the yellow round ones are called lemon crystal cucumbers.. Very tasty.

Crystal Lemon Cucumber

French Beans

This is just a mornings pickings of french dwarf beans. This year we decided to try the yellow variety. These freeze well, and all of these were frozen after washing and preparing them. We also have had a great harvest of Runner…

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