Estuary of Flowers

I step back from the light
into the dark

my wife rocks
herself to sleep
in my favorite chair.

 

On the beach

I want to fly but fall like

a silent prayer.

My limbs are an anchor

as I slip beneath the surface.

Once struggling palms lie flat

as gentle waves rock me.

Seaweed strands of hair mingle

with the sigh of my breath,

I grasp the hands of my

companions,

my only thing of value.

Everything beautiful is here,

all that was lost.

Birds chorus to the stones that

mark the  resting place of a

thousand warriors   in an

estuary of flowers.

art by Abel Tasman

 

 

whir of days

Comes  the days when we

reach back into seas of

pinpoint diamonds where like

globes of fire we spun through

glimmering heavens yielding

only to the pull of hearts.

Now the dew falls from our eyes

Not from  the sky, the tide pulls

outward and mountains lose

their foothold but a new sun

is rising and we are touched by

the tongue of deepening wisdom

and   burning indignation.

 

 

 

 

 

saudade

There is a need for
lips pressed the press
of hands seeking.

Here in my
straight back chair
hold back the firestorm
with your elegant hands
and with your lips
claim the hollow
at my throat.

Scatter  silk like
autumn leaves.
Allow me to fall
like  the ripe flesh
of sweet fruit.

 

artist: Lu Jianjun

Desperate Garden

Near daybreak eyes begin to close.

My mind steps down into our most

beloved poem

*In a dark time the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade …

Below  in spectral gardens

A raven sits motionless on the branch

of a skeletal tree greedily eyeing a

tiny lark all feathers and bone.

In the state between sleep and wake

I traverse birth and mortality,

a faint hint of earthy candles sweeps

the orb of my celestial dreaming.

Sensations of  pearls like tiny moons

fall from my open palm  into infinity.

And you,  whose sigh is a strophe

of sonnets, waits far at the boundary,

not spirit or  rose tinged snow

but flesh and bone and sinew.

Now  I am sleeping less,

roused by the wing beats of Boreal Owls

circling ancient Cypress trees,

their screech a fist  with knife edge

talons erupt through feathery curtains,

breaching my seclusion.

Dark traces  vibrate my hemispheres as

lofty breezes lift me  a spectral mist vanishing

over the valley to a moonlit hillside of sweet lea.

An ivory wolf lies beside me.

He is the scent of ripe wheat fields and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.

 

*In A Dark Time by Roethke (Stanza 1)

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood–
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

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 after 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 his breathing through a half

closed door and know there are

different kinds of love,

wild, ruthless, and unafraid.

Image result for Art by Rob Hefferan

art by Rob Hefferan

a longing

I steer my boat
beneath the lacy moss of
cedar trees where a  lark  drapes
her song,  a spray of flowers, along
the whispering stream.
Beyond the shallows a wooden bridge
where we cast our secrets to the water,
goldenrod along the bank witness the
 breathless embrace of  lovers.
So blue were your eyes those summer days,
 how endlessly deep the longing.

art by Steve Hanks

The Letter

I left a message for you in a book.
It is like me to mark provocative phrases,
to shake them out in ponderous verses.
Do not read too much in the fallout,
the notes in the border are for nostalgia’s sake.
I dreamt of you  again last night
my adversary
Whose  aura I barely recall.
My suffering is not in knowing what is real  but  what is not.

papers.co-aw53-yanjun-cheng-girl-green-sexy-illustration-art-paint-4-wallpaper-260x460

wings thrumming

I drift on an opalescent breeze
dreams flower in my hair
They shed in heaps of autumn leaves
rust and gold and green
I am traveling far from childhood
where dreams were never welcome
against transparent skies
I cast my tattered shadow
A Mayan goddess taking flight
thrumming ancient wings

goddess in flight

art by Karal Bak

wheat fields rolling

give me your story
minute as a wish on a star
Did you run through blowing
wheat fields your yellow hair flying
those secrets of the heart
give them to me
I am swallowed up longing
When you fall I form a scar
read to me  of  love and life
those petals closing in the dark
stay lest I fade away.
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metaphors of birds

Communing with birds

I open my empty palm

expecting metaphors to light

like fireflies on my life line.

When I close my eyes

I can see the river Delta,

sweet green tarpaulin stretched

across the hemisphere and those

deep murky waters reflecting the

silver sky.

Fleeting memories disperse like clouds.

Just before sleep I sink deep

into illusory havens hoping to

escape the boredom of life.

metaphorbirds

Metaphor and Allegory by Ju-Yu Chen