Fire Poppies

I longed for red,

a desire for fiery poppies

in a far off sphere.

Your cosmic eyes intoxicated

parted and rained inside me.

In an ocean of fiery sunsets

I entered that golden part of  you,

immersed the  deep  sky that claimed us.

When our hearts grew mute we realized

we had drifted too near the sun.







art by Gun Legler






god of birds

Some nights swallow me.

My mind surges forward and lurches back.

There’s a needle  impaled in a sad groove

of a suffering  song where I fall into a

maze of broken lifelines.

I mend the fissures of torn wings and await

the mottled sun that rises like a feather,

praying to the god of birds to swoop

down and save me.



Beatrice Gonzales…Goddess of Birds

I’m still standing

5 Year Anniversary Achievement


Happy Anniversary with!
You registered on 5 years ago.
Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging.
Even I am shocked. A very fine writer and poet that I met at a work shopping poetry  forum opened his own Writing  forum ” “Lyre and Brush”  in 2010 where I joined him as a moderator (you may find his poetry at my blog from time to time, a gesture of remembrance,  he passed away in 2014).   He started his blog at WordPress in 2012 and  urged me to do the same.  This is my third blog at WordPress, just opened in April.  WP is my favorite escape when I wake at four in the morning.  Thank you each and everyone for your gifts of writing, poetry, photography, art, a  treasure trove of creative inspiration. You’re the Top!
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sacred birds

Tiny birds  live in my throat,   settle into  a cool  place and sleep until they are awakened by commotion.  Their wings  beat  against fiery walls. The Kafkaesque I drop from my mouth. They  bite  the air with bloody teeth and sharp  talons that  caress  like barber blades,   surrealistic beaks and talons pierce the heart.   What is sacred I swallow.


Fine Art America


your   eyes,

their brows the seductive crescent

of  a silver bay circle  my  mind.

In dreams I am a  dancer  descending

your tongue in the deep aura of sleep.

Your voice is an invocation of bells

that once rung cannot be undone.

I am a charm on a well cut cuff.

You are a diamond encrusted chain.



If They Only Had A Brain

An I Q test could answer the question as to whether he is a moron says our Prez… he already has.

In Saner Thought

“He is a f*cking moron!”

It has been reported that Tillerson has made that comment about Trump……and oh boy the news sites explode…..and wham!  We gonna have a Press  conference.

Well while the country waited for this “presser” we got to hear all about the ways that Tillerson is not as good fit in DC…..time was filled  while we waited.

Then about 1100hrs Eastern time Tillerson bounced out and told his side of the story.

The “presser” was the same as all …..he is a cheerleader of Trump and he is there to stay

The US Secretary of State reaffirmed his commitment to his role on Wednesday, denying that he would step down from his role.

Rex Tillerson called media reports that he had considered resigning “erroneous”, but stopped short of denying reports he had insulted President Donald Trump.

“I reaffirm my commitment to this role and I want to…

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The first kiss

So beautiful…comments closed here, please visit the original.

Inalienable Write

The first kiss begins.

My hand on her cheek – barely touching – her head backwards tilts

My hand can move gently through her hair now

Like a soft breeze sweeps the wild hillside grass.

Her face so beautiful like the last glimpse of sunset

Across the summer water.

Her mouth like the soft darkness of dusk

And my mouth the stars, slowly, touching

More, then one more then another and then all.

We’re as close as humid day,

My breathing on her neck and my hand on her face

And for that brief moment, time takes forever,

The world is only as big as us,

My passion flows as the monsoon rains.

The first kiss had begun, well before it began.

image source

Photo by Maggie West

Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved

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To dry my wet hair I move to a sunny spot on the bank.  I can hear my breath, the tear of my heart.  Sleek ripples of waves roll over gnarled roots of giant cypress to separate around stacks of   ancient stone,  old soldiers guarding  a sacred place.  Looking up,  clouds of words move closer. They say what I don’t want to know  and then  fade into antiquity.  I am grateful for lodestone laps  of water that pull back sad memories and choke them beneath the  silt.  At dusk I catch sight of a Tawny Owl  eyeing me from behind a veil of Spanish moss.  The seasonal birds  have departed like dream-dead children.   I  stay with him  until  tokens of night appear, the fading sun sinking below the horizon, distant deer vanishing in  the  haze, until the river disappears in  fog.



 Bird life International