a thousand years

Cover the sky with your hand.

The summit of your palm is the moon.

Your fingers are  streams of stardust

sweeping through an  ancient dune

or  the slender branches of forked trees.

Glide them across the  desert,

over valleys,  the soft and sediment.

I am every woman you have loved,

their dynamic wings beat in me.

Recall my eyes as history,

you have lived here a thousand years.


art by Louis Treserras

Maria Maria

House of Heart

The waves are endless,  rushing in to the dunes . They are moody and sleepy or screaming with anger,  anarchistic fury fighting destiny.   The sounds of the beach are constant.,   the boys whistle and  yell  “ay mami ”  but it doesn’t bother me.


When I am in Mexico

my name is Maria.

My hair is as black as

the Grammostola   spider,

it shines like the crystals of Playa Norte.

At night we disappear into the barrios,

lose ourselves to the funk of  Bossa,

sway to the sound of  carioca.

You whisper in my ear

 linda Maria



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Song of Seasons

Hold me in  fleeting hours

when we are beautiful and wild,

our flesh  full and ripe, winged creatures

drinking up the night  as honeysuckle

is sustained by the  sun and the rain.

Stay  when summer departs and the

garden sips at  laughter pooled in

the irides of  our eyes.

Lie with me in winter when the

birds hold their song,

tiny skeletons of  hollow bone

indifferent to the cold.

For you my lips are   petals,

sweet  reminders  of lost flowers.

If  you do not return

but fly on  to distant gardens

my body will seek shelter

beneath wings of tongueless birds.

House of Heart
Halt mich fest in flüchtigen Stunden
den schönen und wilden,
unser Fleisch ist voll und reif, geflügelte Wesen
saugen die Nacht auf, Jelängerjelieber,
die von Sonne und den Regen gespeiste.
Bleib, wenn der Sommer vergeht und der
Garten vom Lächeln nippt,
das aus der Iris deiner Augen blitzt.
Lieg bei mir im Winter, wenn die
Vögel zu singen einhalten,
winzige Skelette aus hohlen Knochen,
gleichgültig der Kälte gegenüber.
Für dich sind meine Lippen Blütenblätter,
süße Erinnerungen an verlorene Blumen.
Wenn du nicht zurückkehrst
sondern weiterfliegs, wird mein Körper Schutz suchen
unter den Flügeln zungenloser Vögel.
translated by Bernd Huschenreuther


art by Steve Hanks


Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Carnal Apple by Pablo Neruda



I   feel the brush  of

your  hand as cold as winter’s breath,

glimpse you in lightning strokes  through my  window.

Your steps come and go down  halls still echoing with sorrow.

So  that you may see what is left of me

I’ve etched your eyes to mine.

We are more than  two  souls dismembered

by scythes of devastation that scattered

us like dried flowers.


He goes where gravity pulls  him,

through shimmering curtains

like the wind.

He slips down her cheek like a teardrop

to the hollow of her throat into dreams

that fade like  summer grass.

A  conscious finger of stars,

imagined hands   that  reach for

mown  fields,  the brush of weeping willows,

the shimmer of a cool pond.



*drug addiction is referenced in this short story.

We begin making things up by six or seven,

minds of hummingbirds we sip from wells of illusion.

We can take you with us

to the eddy of an ever prodding muse

dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.

I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown and meld with the chaotic masses, searching eyes that are infused with survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers fading with the crowd, a form of stasis, sweat and coffee stinging the nostrils, clinging to skin. Alien faces etched behind my eyes.

Making my way to the metro I must pass the warehouse district. The young addict is still propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Unkempt, her arms are folded around her knees. Jarred by the boot of her pimp she glances upward from her induced euphoria, her skeletal hand fumbles in the pocket of torn jeans, fishes out a handful of dollars. Looking both ways, he slips it into a smugglers belt and hands her a small 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 her way again, leaving her to isolate to death.

Passing a vacant garden I pick a flower for you 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 rub my body against yours in search of that trigger, the wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. I can’t write until you leave and I can empty my mind of the devastation. You think I’m crazy but to me it makes sense.

The Agony of Ecstasy-44

Enthralling epic drama, for comments please visit the original.

Return of Dragons

The secret of joy is the mastery of pain.

Anais Nin

Image Source: Zanabayne.com

the deeper well

scene 44

The sun eased past the pointing crowns of Carpathia’s evergreen trees casting easterly shadows. The west side of the barn up the hill was ablaze with light from a retreating sun causing the umber walls, faded red doors, and shutters to glow like a temple in full exaltation of the goddess Bendis, the Dacian goddess of the moon and forest. Rolf rested his chin on his paws, hidden in the crisscrossed shadows at the edge of the forest and watched the livestock feed on the lush grass.

The Witch of Carpathia led her Wolfmaster in Waiting to the kitchen table and summoned Vanya. “Vanya, come here girl. I want you to show My Lady how to make the basic knots. Take turns with each other starting with a chest…

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the burden of forgiveness

House of Heart

Glistening sand pulls away

from a shore,

sparkling gems caught in the current.

Minute ecosystems inhabit

tiny tide pools in the wet sand.

Sometimes I stroll the embankment alone

indulging the realms of lovers

where there is no logic but

a crushing ache held close to

the breast.

A carapace between a heart and the

mountains where I left you.

Grant me the freedom to breathe

beneath the tender weight of hands

on eggshell.

My sigh is a gentle quake upon your

unshaven cheek.

Allow me to swim in the river of

your impossible eyes where there

is no threat of war, hard silence,

or the burden of forgiveness.

Steve Hanks - Tutt'Art@ (13)

Art by Steve Hanks/ Maher Art Gallery

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