Night Music by Gurkski

It’s a phenomenon how as
late as May the firs,
not yet blooming,
silhouette in a light and beige blend
  against a whitish blue sky
filled with birds and insects,
living things of all kinds that
settle in to nourish from
the flesh of  bark.
That music the firs make in the night
needs fine ears to hear the subdued
whooshing, creaking, and rustling
and the  unexpected sigh when the wind
bends the twigs too roughly
yet they refuse to break.

 

Poetry by Serge Gurkski 

 

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Summer with Burroughs

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.
you and I,  sporadic as a summer storm.

 

 

Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”

 

The Reaper

is proud of his expensive suits and sparkling smiles.

He hands out ball point pins  as souvenirs once  he signs on the bottom line.

He smiles a toothy grin slanted to the right, he is shrewd.

he’s  taking names, counting numbers, adding to the columns.

His  hands push the sinking boat out  to sea.

His conscience  rests on a bed of lies, beats its chest, waves its flag.

 

 

 

 

Muscadine – In Memory on Father’s Day

House of Heart

His mother named him Carlos, such a strange name for a Welshman. Perhaps she loved Spain.  We said goodbye  by a bed near a window  deep with winter.

Summers heavy cloak hung

over fields of Goldenrod,

their long limbs reaching

out to mesh with spiky

leaves that sheltered

bundles of marmalade florets.

Their invasion of the meadow

met with merciless machetes

that hacked through  unwelcome

invaders who hadn’t the courtesy to

extend a pleasant fragrance.

The trail led to an arbor nestled

in a stand of trees to a brook

trickling lightly through a trellis

where never ending appendages

wound and weaved through a

dense clusters of bulbous

translucent nipples

clinging tenaciously to their host.

The scent of peppery earth stung

our  nostrils and attracted white tail deer

that ravaged the vines of their treasure.

The old man snaked a garden hose through

the lattice to frighten them, a guise…

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The Breathing Air

when I think of you

I become a   waterfall,

a glimmering  chimera of color

cascading  over peregrine walls where

I am so afraid to fall.

Powerless to hold us back

I  immerse in the labyrinth of

your  eyes as rare as  silken tongued  shore birds,

slivers of the setting sun that echo

us out to sea where we are more than an

epoch of bones and the  blood force rushing

through our veins is the the breathing air of lovers,

as gentle or fierce as the press

of your thigh on mine.

 

 

Charles French: What Have We Become?

This appalling action of separating children from mothers and fathers at our southern border must stop now. Please visit the original. Comments closed here.

charles french words reading and writing

I have tried very hard in this blog not to be political. I have extremely strong views, but I have attempted to keep them out of this site. I no longer can.

The United States of America, which has been the beacon of hope to the desperate of the world, now have become the nation that rips children from their parents. What is happening at the southern border is inexcusable. No American, regardless of political leaning, no matter if Democrat, Republic, or Independent, whether liberal, moderate, or conservative,  should accept what our government is doing.

Attorney General Sessions used The Bible to justify these actions. I suggest he actually consider the lesson that Jesus gave in Matthew 19:14 “But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.The action of the government, separating children…

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Clouds

This Summer
I will forego silk for cotton, forsake heavy perfume for oil of wildflowers.
I will indulge  feminist Left bank-Dada,
prefer originality over sophistication.
I will get lost in a cloud of adventure, escape the boredom of life in bohemian Paris.
We will lie down  on a fluttering meadow coiled between skyscrapers
where we learn to fly above star studded mountains, through green garden grottoes.
Our daydreaming minds  lie back on clouds of Aristophanes and there you watch
  over me  deep in  satin fantasy, your breathless voice bends to my listening ear
to translate the  Song of Songs for me.

 

 

 

 



 

Via: Tokidoki (Nomad)

 

While Fox (Faux) News (Opinions) reported on Meghan Markle’s off-the-shoulder dress, here’s what actually happened, and matters, in our country (and to the world) this week ~ —————————————————————————————————————————————– Week 82 of this presidency: Experts in authoritarianism advise to keep a list of things subtly changing around you, so you’ll remember. June 9, 2018 https://medium.com/@Amy_Siskind/week-82-experts-in-authoritarianism-advise-to-keep-a-list-of-things-subtly-changing-around-you-so-e77db1301d3b This week […]

via POLITIKS OF GRAFFITI 83: CONTINUING TO DIVIDE THE COUNTRY — TOKIDOKI (NOMAD)

Bathwater

My Screaming Twenties

Tracing my fingers

across your skin

is like drawing

a bath:

the rushing water,

the stampede

of your heart.

The way the water

pools and swirls,

the lines

in your knuckles.

The quiet stillness,

a fountain of safety,

a lake

creamy and pale.

The light bouncing

up onto the ceiling,

the sparkle

in your eyes.

My reluctance to leave

once fully submerged,

stroking every side

touching every curve.

Your goosebump relief

sinking in, to be swaddled

in my bathwater arms.

© Kristiana Reed 2018

Image: pinterest

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