Turning

I feel the season changing,

the tilt of Earth’s axis,

the days growing shorter

the night’s  desire to linger.

Summer seemed boundless,

now the sundial casts long shadows.

I will miss  you with your

brand of ripeness,

August’s   lustrous brightness

inciting the senses with fields

afire beneath a summer sky.

Now its wheat is  stacked and

bound  in lonely batches.

Buried beneath autumn leaves

the earth  imbues the darker hues

starless skies of delft blue and

gray swathes  that cloak the dawn.

The ash of burning  locust wood

shrouds the wilting garden with

the musky scent of autumn ghosts

heralding the chill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Cherry Blossoms

Among the huddled bodies I gag at the odor  of the unwashed. The cargo deck is filled with small bodies.  I try to hold on to my little  sister as we are tossed about over the high swells. Her baby scent singles her out in the masses.   Yesterday we were making our way  from school  along the dirt path to our  house of walls, windows, and dirt floors.    We covered our eyes from the burning sun and rejected the slanted eyes of the men in the van who rode alongside us. Scattering our books along the dirt road we were bound and blindfolded with the others.  Later in the night  we are miles off the coast of Venezuela,  surrounded by indigo seas,  we can hear the voice of the boatman, harsh and hurried, his slits of eyes watch  for followers.  We are fed La Rochas to  transform our terror into sugar colored dreams.  Waking up we are in a floating world of pale pink and  silk fans. The face of the Thai Man smiles  behind  angry walls.

 

Ohga Hasu

 

Strangers and Lovers – Collaboration

It was a delight and honor to write with Braedon, so much fun!
Please visit the original at “Overflowing Ink”.

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Overflowing Ink

I didn’t mean to fall for your

magnificent intellect and brilliant eyes

I didn’t mean to fall for your
stunning curves and accent

I didn’t mean to fall for your

innocent laugh and magnetic charm

I didn’t mean to fall for your

echoing fortress and wide skies

I didn’t mean to fall for your

lips of ecstasy and golden tongue

I didn’t mean to fall for your

luscious skin and blissful scent

I didn’t mean to fall for your

beloved moon and drops of silver

I didn’t mean to fall for your

desirous flame and solid wick

I didn’t mean to fall for your

intoxicating personality

still we have no control over destiny

and luck is not the same as fate.

Reflections blending through a window

lovers and strangers, the cruelest fate.

My heart is a bird trailing its shadow

Its course charted and true

I never meant to fall,

View original post 29 more words

Annie Says “it’s alright”

Here on the balcony I let the cool  air and a majestic linden tree with its dark leaved  branches  reach out to soothe  me but the night conjures memories from the past that I try to blow away in the smoke of my cigarette.   In the back of my mind I recall a girl, a fragility in leather.    Did  she  exist or is she a  construct of my brain?   I try  to drown out my thoughts with some blues.  I am going somewhere I really don’t want to go and tonight I am breathing just for the light.

 

My Body

This flesh,

be a dark tunnel

where   crawling things

fear the light.

Heart be a bird,

a red macaw in the highest tree.

Be the grotto in the mountainside,

home to gypsies,  or  fresh water

on the burning sands of deserts.

You , tormentor of dreams,

be a mourner at the grave.

In your tunic of  infinity,

be a  marble stone and a eulogy.

 

red macaw

 

art by Free People

apple woman

A hummingbird is  etched
at the nape of my neck
between  a shiver of shoulders.
She hovers like a tiny moon
on the  cruets of  honeysuckle.
My thoughts are  a cutlass of emotion,
a chisel of shame or the begging
tongue of a  feral.
Unheralded  breasts perched on pale
slopes defeat and yet define me.
Inside,  a cache of robins eggs,  saved
from the graze of ruthless teeth
slicing through a sky blue dress.
My apple heart  harbors  man
whose anger is a ligature winding.
Its beat is  a warm river of release
or a bleed across a torn canvas.

 

 

shoulder tattoo

tatuajestatua

 

 

Blasphemy

Browsing  souvenirs

I am reminded of you.

The door to the past swings open

inviting the sleek eel of memories

where I am nothing  or at best

some trembling leaf lost in a summer fog.

Do you think of me at all

when constellations press against the sky,

when the surge of the tide roars ashore and the

waves are slick sea lions riding white horses?

I long to seek comfort in the moon but I am so  trivial

and he is taken by  the stars.

In dreams my tongue is a crimson  snake

flicking the skin of your thigh.

It curls the catch in my throat.

It is  god and has named me regret.

I close our door  with pried fingers,

I’ve given up on prayer hands .

 

 

 

Later in the dark

At the wharf I sit on the damp wall and  sip my drink,  let  my mind slip  into the giant salamander of sea. The moon is a  glistening slice of neon,  her whisper carries on the wind, “moon child I love you too”.   Sinking further in I watch a  velvet Osprey swoop  my reflection from the silver waves where the sighs of lovers are lost in a monsoon.  Old images flicker across my frontal lobe as I liberate sip by sip. That man with the golden veins doesn’t interest me anymore.  Maybe later when  my pearl skinned body breaks the surface I’ll bring him back again.

 

 

 

 

art by Steve Hanks

Maybe I’m Crazy

We begin making things up  by six or seven,

minds of  hummingbirds we sip from illusion

We can  take you with us

to  the  eddy of an ever prodding muse

where we dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.

 

Some days I Leave as though I am going to work.   Instead I walk downtown and meld with the chaotic masses, search  eyes that are  infused with survival. As the morning wears on   relentless whispers  fade with  the crowd,  leaving the smell of pungent sweat and Cuban coffee.  The faces and scent imprint the back of my eyes and cling to my nostrils.

Making my way to the metro rail,  I   pass  the warehouse district.  She is still there,  leaning  against the graffiti that turns golden in the sunset.  Her arms are folded around her knees,  face and  hair  dirty and unruly.  I imagine she is being used  by the man who jars her with his boot,  her eyes squint  and slowly her skelatal arm reaches out to  take the bag.   I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold.   It smells of urine here,  even the stray dog lifts his feet.  I glance that way  again then  walk quickly away as she isolates to death.
Later I bring  you a flower  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 long after you go. I can’t write with you here, not just to annoy you.  Only when I am empty of  devastation can I sleep.   I know it’s crazy but to me  it all makes sense.