From my window
I look down on a garden
of exotic flowers.
I need to be loved like roses,
the silvery blades of a
crescent moon slipping through.
Nameless things on winged feet
flitting among Zoysia grass
nipping life with amorous teeth.
From my window a sliver of moon casts a haze over the water and I listen to the rush of soft waves. Those creatures beneath the depths, do they sleep, dream? If parted do they grieve? Down the street I can see lights from an all night store, a man stands behind the counter. Cautiously he slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a bottle. A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront. I imagine them harming the storekeeper. Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway, they laugh at her and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of birds of prey that swoop down with unblinking eyes, hungry beaks, and talons poised for butchery. I watch closely in case I need to call out a warning but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real, maybe everything I think, everything I see or hear is all in my head. I lose focus and the burn of you stings just below my surface. I want to sleep, forget the sound of your voice, your unforgiving eyes, not give a damn about you.
Autumn scatters her shades
in daring colors of rust and copper,
asymmetrical patterns splayed
under fledgling wings above
silent fields of late blooming
lilac and the soft blush of peony
left clinging to a bowing trellis.
A flicker of burnished feathers
dripping the weight of dew,
flitting through blowing wheat fields,
the breath of life after summer flew.
Dried stalks abandoned beneath crusty leaves,
their tender stems beaten to the soil
in need of assurance, a promise of rebirth.
Photography by Heart
There is a need for
lips pressed, pressing,
of hands seeking.
Here in my
straight back chair
hold back the firestorm
with your elegant hands
and with your lips
claim the hollow
of my throat.
Scatter silk like
Allow me to fall
like the ripe flesh
of sweet fruit.
artist: Lu Jianjun
Steve hanks art
When I spread my wings
I can feel the pull of freedom.
I spread them wide and trail my shadow
the way birds do.
Your hands are elegant thieves
your tongue a web of lies
that ease my mind and sink
your shine right through me.
What is real or an illusion
in this desperate nest of chaos
where I found you?
When the veil parts and light slivers in
I can see the slant of sky where you slipped in.
Winter does not empathize
with withered branches
or displaced birds fleeing waves of
of frozen breath.
Her howling wind is a laugh out loud and
she hasn’t the grace to cover her mouth.
A tease of holly and evergreen
flicker at the curve of billowed thighs,
glistening folds of hallowed mounds
drift in other worldly sighs
ensnared in her exquisite binds.
art by Karol Bak
Along the banks
river sand pulls away
from a glistening shore,
dusky gemstones 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 I hold close
to my breast.
A carapace between a heart and the
mountains where I left you.
Grant me the freedom to come undone
beneath the tender weight of hands
My sigh is a gentle quake upon your
Allow me to drown in the river of
your impossible eyes where there
is no threat of war, hard silence,
or the burden of forgiveness.
Art by Steve Hanks/ Maher Art Gallery
Browsing through souvenirs
I am reminded of you.
The door to the past swings open
releasing a sleek eel of memories
where I am nothing or at best
some trembling leaf lost on a summer breeze.
Do you think of me?
See me in constellations pressed against the sky,
hear me in the surge of tide, slick sealions riding white horses?
I would seek comfort in the moon but I am so trivial
and he is taken by the stars.
In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake
flicking the skin of your thigh,
curling around the catch in my throat.
It is god and has named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers,
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy