woman we are strangers

but I know your heart is a hive
of bees torn from your chest spilling
honey you have harvested for years,
trained  well, be silent be still,
demand they remain in the pit of your gut,
traitors before the door is shut.
They Stream down your face the second you
recall that cache, that remembered thing,
they  fall from your eyes for all to see.
Maybe you’ve just  had a bad day,
all those smiling faces waiting
at the crosswalk  and all you can
think of is what you’ve left behind.
Woman, we are strangers but  I know you
so well.

 

Nina Leen 1957

Tango…

Brilliant, passionate, mysterious…. Gigi.

Rethinking Life

Painted, Argentina, Advertisement, Tango

he sat in the small dark bar
watching her dance the tango
passion played out
on an ancient wooden floor
the man holding her
was pressed tightly
against her long lean body
she was beautiful
graceful
and moved with confidence and ease
her black dress clinging to her curves
her black heels making noise
only when she wanted them to do so
the man was madly in love with her
anyone could see that
but she hardly seemed to notice
so lost in the music
and the moment
unaware of anything else
if he could dance
he would walk onto the floor
and tear her away from him
take her for himself
he blinked
horrified by his own thoughts
when he looked up
she was staring at him
as if she had read his mind
he couldn’t move
she laughed into the man’s shoulder
and looked away
his heart was…

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net of dreams

I dreamed you beside me

in a small fishing village,

our bare feet dangling

from an ancient  wall.

Stone  soldiers, eternally

gaurding   held back the

swell of the rushing sea.

By the  beacon of a distant

lighthouse sea birds flew over

only to vanish beneath its

woeful beam.

A shell at my ear  I held you,

gathered  you in silk arms of netting.

Losing  my grip you slipped away,

freed from the catch of dreams.

sea side

 

 

this is dangerous

The professor was always

watching me,  chasing after me,

whispering warnings as though

he were my father.

Still I tore at those wounds,

those itching scabs of words

until I ripped off their secrets.

At night he played piano in a

sleazy bar  singing about revolution

in his ragged jeans smoking weed

and preaching anarchy.

When the soldiers tortured him

he told them about my treason,

writing poetry at night while

he was sleeping.

 

 

 

 

Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro

Excerpt from “Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro

my dear
you are between a rock and a hard place
your face does not illuminate the same as the others
your lights are few and speckled
but i’ve always loved freckles
you are a grid system at first glance
i know they tell you real women have curves
but real women know better than that
sometimes you are cold and the conversation runs dry
but it’s not easy being as high as you are all the time
i love you
i never want to leave you
and i know you don’t believe me
but you are the manic pixie dream girl
who at times is slightly annoying
but i know your heart is too full of
homeless men laying out sleeping bags
on the floor of your rib cage
great tent cities on your shoulders

the twilight hours

 

Only earth angels hear the tender rippling

of hearts.

In the pounding rain we

bare our quills to the world,

reappear from our veiled cage.

Bruises of the soul are slow to heal

but we are  indifferent to pain.

Gardenias fill the  room with mortality,

petals of sweet secrets nurtured by a rhapsody of recollection.

Surrendering dreams makes us still,

a vast wasteland where  all  poetic breath

dies with us.

We long for the clean scent of Spring,

the rust  smell of earth infused in deep roots,

to  hear again  the swaying chimes on the limbs

of a slender Linden,

synchronized for the twilight hours.