A Winged Bird

I am who I have always been
a shiver of soft reeds beside the river
or the cascade of  a waterfall.
Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn sky
gathering their kind they circle
back for me.

I can scarcely bear the

splendor of the world,

its wonder humbles

the wisp  that is me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue,

stunned by the promise

of a  red dawn.

Elegant trees  lift

their mighty arms,

grand  gods host creatures

large and small.

Their noble crowns filled

with a cornucopia of life.

I want to sail across the sea
tiny fleck that is me,
a winged bird   bearer of
no possession,
a fragment of the universe

art by Amy Judd (represented by Hicks Gallery)

The Lighthouse

She is a lone bird wheeling jagged edges

of ancient cliffs above the shallows

of a rough Dover sea.

Her feathers gleam in the beam of

the lighthouse where gentle swells

pulse against rocky shores  there in

dreams you held her tenderly like a

treasured pearl.

She has abandoned the lighthouse

that seems to lean closer to the sea

waiting in vain at the tide swept shore.

The beam has ceased its search for you

still each time she passes she tips her wing.

Incantations

When all that I want is so far away
and all that is left is solitude,
I chant your name through warm
currents of breath or sharp ice
shadows of entities.
I’ve etched my likeness into the stars
a dreamer in fields of flowers
a bouquet of affection fragile jonquils
pressed against a heart.
Tethered to cloud banks of silvery sleep
we meet in fantasies and the
sweetness of a lover’s suffering.

A Thousand Years

cover the sky with your hand

the summit of your palm is the moon.

Your fingers are streams of stardust

sweeping across ancient dunes

or the slender branches of willows

gliding through desert sand

soft and sediment.

Your words sting like bees that linger

thawing like ice on your tongue.

The heart of every woman you have

loved lives inside me

the cracking bones of beating wings

resounding against fixed walls

whispers of moments come and gone.

Recall my eyes as time,

you have lived here a thousand years

To The Masses Unfree by Serge Gurkski

Do not
corrupt the binds that hold you
but should you feel so inclined
do not waste what you do not have.
In altered zones of delight
I tumble through the days.
My lover comes and goes leaving me
lonely and politics is not soothing either.

I speak to America, You beautiful nation.
Beauty is not my friend
but the concept that governs is.
Read the lines on which your independence
rests you citizens of heaven.

The Congress, July 4th, 1776.

“The history of the King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpation, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States“.

“”Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it”

…writer and philosopher George Santayana

A Little Night Music

the silence

Wiping a tear from our eye
a sympathetic smile
no need to apologize
no time for  paperwork.
Scribbled notes mark the
time and day.
The dead are silent.
Mourners grieve behind closed doors.
It is not my demise nor yours.
We shake our heads and snuff our cigarettes
dig through our closets for the flag.

For Pablo

When I found  you

I was not searching

beautiful and wild

our lids heavy with desire

we sipped Santiago raindrops

from our cupped tongues.

Tears of salt-rose fell from my eyes

at the hour of your departure and

my heart became a  dying bird

it’s wings unfastened and open.

 

Night on the Island

by Pablo Neruda

I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

 

Night Music

The Gold

Nights while you sleep

 my lips are so close I can

draw your breath in like an

infant at its mother’s breast.

I  run my fingers down the curve

of your spine lean in to breathe

your smokey scent.

I have entered that golden part of you

immersed the sea that claimed me in

oceans of fiery sunsets.

When our hearts grow mute we will know

we have drifted too near the sun

 

art by Karol Bak