the desperate garden

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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

 

in need of advent

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.

 

 

kabegami art

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

 

 

Esperanza

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

 

artist: Lu Jianjun

The Pale Window

The sun is still low in the sky,

it’s rays have barely begun

to pierce the chill of our pale window.

Don’t go,  we are scarcely out of dreaming.

Caress my breast with the lifeline of your palm

while my head rests in the crook of your shoulder.

With these  fingertips you kiss one by one

I will ease the furrow of your brow and

soothe your body with the twining of my own.

Let the hours pass  through us tenderly

like a shallow river of fledgling reeds.

 

Steve hanks art

 

Blue Bird

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.

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