Gold Dust

From the train window

I can see miles of Pine trees

that seem to go on forever.

There’s a golden wolf howling

at the moon

chanting to the midnight Gods.

By morning Pine trees give way to

Palms and screeching Cicadas.

Tonight the moon reveals the belly of

the world  from which we all come.

All that I have left is a photograph.  

Tell me night-time dreamer why you

hold so many secrets in your heart.

When I look into your  eyes

all I  see is star dust.

A Different Kind of Love

There are times when I can see myself

through your eyes.

My pale face so in love

aching for the caress of a flaxen

haired boy racing through rolling fields.

Suddenly serious your adventurous eyes

sent yearning shivers through me.

I longed for your touch anytime and

kissed you opened mouth without

permission.

I adored your mock anger when you

chased me and the awkward way

you looked down at your hands.

Soon Autumn threw its shadow on

sprouting wheat, smooth and wet.

Now, I listen to the soft whisper

of your breathing through a half

closed door and know there are

different kinds of love

wild, ruthless, and unafraid.

Bourbon Street

Late afternoons I sit at the counter of a small diner sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn into night or dollar green but it seems as Gershwin said, not for me. It is dog days and I am hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love fading so soon. I dream myself into a hot soak in a fancy clawed foot bath tub sinking my dusty body into lilac scented bubbles. I imagine lying back with closed eyes as the hot water flicks at peony nipples. I am what one might call self-employed these days.
Settling for a motel shower stall I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolias with rose scented oil until it glimmers like alabaster. Slipping into a black sheath, silver seamed stockings and stiletto heels saved for the occasion, I make my way onto Bourbon Street. At the corner the sounds of a sax carries through the open door of a dimly lit bar, it drifts up the alley over the roof of a brothel falling into gentle ruin. From my booth there I stare through a prism of glass at the Dog Star and blow a kiss to the man in the moon already yawning at the deep purple sky.

Night Music

denizen of dreams

My dream dies then returns

where you are a denizen who

speaks in languages I’ve yet

to learn

our dream had weight yet

Left no impression in the snow.

That December we

spoke in stutters still the heat

of our tongues turned words

to smoke.

You appear on the back of my eyes

etched into walls where light

and shadow mingle.

Why did you have to be so beautiful?

Now December holds me fast

forever retrieving the dream.

Night Music

Winter Song

The sun has lost its domain

snow birds shroud the light

A handful of starlings quiver on

bare branches so  fragile in fixed feathers

they could fit in the palm of a hand.

Suspended  in frozen breath they sing

for the reach of an outstretched hand

clinging to a red-tailed kite floating

above snowy fields of  wildflowers in full bloom.

The Lighthouse

I am a lone bird wheeling jagged edges

of ancient cliffs above the shallows

of a rough Dover sea.

My  feathers gleam in the beam of

the lighthouse where gentle swells

pulse against rocky shores  

where in dreams you held me tenderly like 

treasured pearls.

I have 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

still each time I pass I  tip my  wing.

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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)