You Can Tell Me

Tell me how you pass the hours.

That slanted smile,

does it hide shackles of pride

(I have mine too).

You are my obsession,

undulating sensations that

can’t be restrained.

What I know of you

I have learned  through osmosis,

the taste of ozone, like breathing air.

In worldly dreams I am wearing leather

waiting for you in a Parisian cafe.

Is there shame in what we  are compelled to do?  tell me

 

 

art by Michael Garmash

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black spell night

Drawn by the pull of possibility

I am at war with resistance,

the desperate allure of words

becoming flesh.

A tender momentum of hands

on taut shoulders gently soothing

a tangled bough of willowy knots

powerless to undo a black spell night.

You are kindle igniting the perfect fire.

In the calm of dawn I am a periwinkle

at your pillow,

pale petals of desire bending

to what is golden.

 

 

innocensedawn at pinterest

 

Night Life

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.

 

 

 

Anais

Frightened by a world she can barely hold on to,

the uncertainty of breath

where safety lives in dreams.

I like to sit in her lap

and play games as

she strokes my fur with

her gentle fingers.

Sometimes I tease and

pull away,

lick myself and pretend

I am too busy.

When the master comes home

he too likes to play,

tossing me into the flower bed

with rough paws.

I feel my bones may break so

she placates him with a smile

while I hide away in the garden

chasing lizards and winged things.

She kneels when  he yanks her hair,

slaps  dewdrops from her face.

When it’s done he washes   rust from his nail beds,

says he’s had a bad day.

I don’t understand the games my people play.

 

 

 

Photography by Heart

 

 

She’s Not A Lady

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

the burden of forgiveness

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

on eggshell.

My sigh is a gentle quake upon your

unshaven cheek.

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

Blasphemy

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 see right through me

One would expect to flee this grey carapace

whose high window opens to emptiness.

Far out, below the sea, when I am dreaming

I see us in its whirling.

Filled with disembodied desire we swim among

love’s debris.

My shiver of  eyes search for what we were

in dark murals  where my mind is your confessional and no sin is grave enough

I am what remains and when I look at me,

I see right through us.

 

 

art by Guy Finlay “Letting Go”

confessionals and currency

A Sheer scarf covers the

lamp on the night stand

slivers of moon light slip though

the  French doors

reflecting off walls of burgundy

and  egg shell limbs caught

in loose binds.

She is the red of womanhood

her breasts alert gazelles

guileless eyes are  the shade of currency

her mind has become his confessional

and there is no sin grave enough

 

 

 

Like an Animal

As the fog of dream lifts

I feel the tinder of your skin

on mine igniting a raging flame.

Your eyes seek out the savage

in me.

 

Here we are still lovers

where like a starving animal

I devour you  with weak bites

never completely consuming

you.

 

 

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