Interlude

Those who dream by night in rusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find it vanity. Dreamers of the day are dangerous for they may act on their dreams with open eyes. T.E. Lawrence – Seven Pillars of Wisdom

I turn to you in this dream,

light my cigarette from the glowing

tip of your own.

I propose we fly away.

We sip red wine and slip

into a bluer state where

along a dark corridor with high

windows we sway within

our satin dream.

Your dark eyes whip my mind

into arousal and your elegant hand

caressing the length of my thigh

turns me soft inside.

Your breath is a sigh at my ear that

whispers my hair and crimson lips

so near devours your resistance.

Against waves of longing and desire

dreams are what it could be like.

Far below among the blackthorn

hares chase foxes

and Roebucks hunt hunters.

To shield me from the terror you

press my face against your chest.

We are breathing molecules into

the light and a slight glimmer of red

rises in the east.

It would be easy now to fly.

Babylon

“We’ll always have Paris” *

La Ville-Lumière courtesy of Equinoxio. ❤

Equinoxio

Two years without going back to Paris. How would I find the old city? The answer: chaotic, traffic-jammed, invaded by masked nitwits running on electric scooters at 20mph on the sidewalk. But Paris will always be Paris. Notre-Dame, the old “girl”, is still there, doing well. The reconstruction is progressing at good speed. (Paris, July-August 2021)

“Fleur mystique”, Mystic flower, by Gustave Moreau (1826-1898). Critics or art historians label him “Symbolic”. I would call him more a Mythology painter. Many of themes are based on Greek or Roman mythology, or oniric subjects such as this “Mystic flower”. Though a favourite painter of mine, I hadn’t visited his house/museum in a while. Taking advantage of the Health Pass, reluctantly handed to me by the French Gvt, I ran there and found the same magic.

Toulouse-Lautrec,1893, at the Petit Palais.

Joan of Arc, 1865 by Emmanuel Frémier. Petit…

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A Carnival of Colour — Art Gowns

Welcome, welcome all, to A Carnival of Color! I’m Rene Rosso 🌹, and I present to you the most colour you will ever see on any catwalk, anywhere. All hail our dahling Art Director Rebecca Budd! Wearing bias cut faux tartan print palazzo pants, with coordinated accessories, she has earned the feathers in her hat […]

A Carnival of Colour — Art Gowns

If I Am Quiet

House of Heart

I can watch butterflies

float weightless over gardens

Stained glass collages of

amber rust and brown

set in facets of sable veins

they hover over flowers

compound eyes and fluttery feelers

faces smeared flaxen

too fine for the eye to see

Free from fear

death is not a concept on

that mystical journey

If I am silent I can watch.

art by Nature Works

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Stasis

We begin making things up by six or seven. Minds of hummingbirds we sip from wells of illusion. Come with me to the eddy of an ever prodding muse to dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.

I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown to meld with the chaotic masses, searching eyes infused with survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fades with the crowd. The strong scent of sweat and coffee stings my nostrils, clings to my skin. Alien faces are forever etched behind my eyes.

Making my way to the metro I pass the warehouse district. A young addict sleeps against the graffiti covered wall that like her unkempt hair turns golden in the sunset. Her arms are folded around her knees. Awakened from induced euphoria by the nudge of a worn boot she glances upward, her skeletal hand fumbles in the pocket of her threadbare jeans, fishes out a handful of dollars. Glancing in both directions he tucks it beneath his belt and in exchange hands her a small bag. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold. It reeks of urine here, even the stray dog lifts his feet. I glance her way again, leaving her to isolate to death.

Passing a vacant garden I pluck a flower and playfully slip it behind your ear. From the same garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to press my body against yours in search of that trigger, that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. When you go I can finally empty my mind of the devastation. I know you think it’s crazy but to me it makes sense.

Just before drowning

In this dream

I am in Paris.

It is just before dawn and

a man waits beneath a

street lamp.

A sad smile that doesn’t

reach his eyes passes

through me.

I am the memory of an

anonymous red rose.

Between lovers , he roams

the lonely streets at night

sinking  into eyes as deep

as the river Seine

the kind one might find

just before drowning.

Light in the Night by Paul Militaru (thank you Paul)

Capistrano

“The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones. Her hair the color of cliff grass rises and falls across her face in the breeze” ____ Maggie Stiefvater, The Scorpio Races

As peaceful as the sea birds that fill the palm fronds, we watch the stars sparkle like diamonds against their velvet backdrop. Listening to the sound of ocean waves rushing ashore, slick sea lions glimmer under the cusp of an orange rind moon. The hours pass softly like the sea breeze. We are not tired but exhilarated. Ruffling his hair, I let my clothing drop to the damp sand, motion to him, follow. Together we vanish in the rolling waves.

An excerpt from The Swallows of Capistrano, a collaboration.

twilight

Beautiful 🤍

Gretchen Del Rio's Art Blog

watercolor 8/2021

She lost herself in the trees

among the ever-changing leaves.

She wept beneath the wild sky

as stars told stories of ancient times.

The flowers grew towards her light,

the river called her name at night.

She could not love an ordinary life

with the mysteries of the universe

hidden in her eyes.

……..Christy Ann Martine

purchase this painting

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Loved Like Roses

From this room

where we meet in light and shadow

where love is made –

and war,

the stars reflect on a peaceful

field of blue iris.

I need to be loved like roses.

Silvery blades of a crescent moon

slice through fields growing wild.

Transparent things on winged feet

flit through silky Zoysia

nipping at life with amorous teeth.

exotic red flower

Paul Militaru

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