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.
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
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
You are perplexing,
when my eyes close you are still there
embedded behind my lids.
I pretend to understand you but
I have yet to unravel the enigma
slyly slipping through me.
Your soft growl calls out my emotions,
holds me tender with soft pads or still with
the fierce clamp of jaws at my throat.
What I know of you I’ve learned through osmosis,
those flickers of intimacy I’ve pulled like roots of teeth.
Every instinct urges flee but with your breath on my face
it is always too late.
One thing I know for sure,
you are skilled at breaking and entering.
Sometimes I feel my words are
a blazing flame melting the chalice
of your gold heart.
There is comfort in the quiet when
we cross the continents.
We feel but never touch and let the moon
devour us, set the night afire, too holy for the light.
In your presence I am profanity in the sacred sky,
a blasphemy of flaws too small to alter fate.
While I was thinking of you a fledgling
fell to earth, saved by the wind on her
passage to life.