woman waiting

House of Heart

Lips wet with mist,  the breeze of a kiss,

water grass sweeping through diaphanous dreams.

The strains of  a sonata stream,

rivers of veins filled with bloods wildness

a song  blue playing with fire.

Tongues of lovers burn with allegory

celestial walls of silence.

Hear the firewood snap and hiss

the burning heat of need.

Has her awakening come to late?

Art by Liu

 

Unbeknownst to me this poem was picked up in October  and published at Bon Bon Lifestyle Webazine. Thank you  Bon Bon Lifestyle, and thank you Jonathan for letting me know.

woman waiting — House of Heart

 

 

 

 

 

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build mansions

Throw away those pages,

that pink littered landscape.

Where is the victory in pity?

Build your mansion of bones

and sorrow so deep it can

not be contained but spills

from the fissure of your heart.

Reach inside stretched

skin whose scars  still sting.

There is no poetry

in  swallowed pain,

of  the temperate voice.

Those words are still born.

No life lives there,

no womb that has birthed

scorn and rage.

 

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 Agony of Ecstasy-Scene 22

A scene from the compelling epic tale by Hyperion.
Please read the spellbinding original.

Return of Dragons

“As he took her hand, he gave her all she had been waiting for – a shiver down her spine.”

Atticus – Love Her Wild

Image Source: Pinterest

Marius

Scene 22

The Silver Wolf knew there was no defying him now. He had the Wolfkeeper’s daughter where he wanted her. He was confident she was ready to take on the responsibilities of Wolf Master, but he had to test her spirit much like a young wolf is checked to see if the animal was suited for an Alpha’s role in the pack. The confirmation, as in nature, was not kind. It was necessary.

Marius helped Dari out of the coarse wool coat and set it on the sofa next to his. The soft orange glow of firelight outlined a vision of sensual curves flared from waist to hips and angled in on sturdy legs, built from a lifetime of servitude…

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HOLLY’S Thumb Nail IMAGE!

Thank you Jonathan. Who could resist this? Comments closed.

 

By the Mighty Mumford

House of Heart comes to mind,

When Holly’s thumbnail I find…

Time to visit

Her work exquisite

Her work makes my ardor climb!

–

My favorite redhead is she,

Devoted to poetry….

Plus a gopod friend

Encourages when,

I’m not so sure about me!

–

Jonathan Caswell

,

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A Winged Bird

I am who I have always been

a shiver of soft reeds beside the river

or the cascade of  waterfall.

Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn sky

gathering their kind they circle

back for me.

 

I can scarcely  bear the

splendor of the world,

it’s wonder humbles

the wisp  of me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue

astounded by the promise

of a  red sunrise.

Elegant trees  lift up

their mighty arms,

grand  gods in prayer,

host to creatures

large and small,

the  cornucopia of life

fills their noble crowns.

 

I want to sail across the sea,

this tiny fleck that is me,

a winged bird   bearer of

no possession,

fragment of the universe.

 

 

fine art America

 

Translation by  Bernd Hutschenreuther

Ein geflügelter Vogel sein

Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz
der Welt zu enthüllen,
ihre Wunder schmälern
noch meine Winzigkeit.
Details von Augen und Ohren
und Zunge, stumm,
erstaunt vom Versprechen
eines Sonnenaufgangs.
Vornehme Bäume erheben
ihre erhabenen Arme,
mächtige Götter im Gebet,
Gastgeber unzähliger Geschöpfe,
abgezupft in rot und grün,
Füllhörner mit Nüssen und Beeren
zieren ihre edlen Kronen.
Ich möchte das Meer durchsegeln,
winziger Fleck, der ich bin,
ein geflügelter Vogel, Träger
keines Besitzes, ein erfreuliches
Fragment des Alls,
einem jeden sichtbar.

Deutsch: Bernd Hutschenreuther

 

the lethal dose

There are days  shadows course

through me like a breeze,

pressing deep into my life line and

the air is the scent of a stale satin pillow

where I refuse to lay my head.

I don’t fear  those intrepid ghosts,

I embrace and release them with

failed  gravity or the force that once

held the cupped hand of my lover.

The sky was alive then with every shade of

blue and the clarity of Windsor eyes

where I longed for space.

Desire is a stranger,  a lethal dose,

 encountered beneath a sacred mound.

art by Laura Makabresku

‘The lovely silence’

With John’s permission. Comments closed, please see the original.

 

 

 

 

johncoyote

The lovely silence
The real poets and writers know. The silence is golden. Words become meaningless in the midnight hours. True lovers don’t need to speak. They allow their mouth, hands and body to send their message of need to their lovers.

 

Sweet lady whispered please don’t say nothing and her soft hands danced on willing skin of her lover. In the midnight hours, lovers don’t seek permission. They open their minds, hearts and body. They don’t take and steal. They give and expose willing places and skin. They are willing to climb the mountain of wild and deep passion. Three a.m lovers don’t seek forgiveness and repair. They seek solemn place where lips and body become one till the morning light.

 

Pretty woman eyes filled with love and hope. Perfect words said to lucky man. In the quiet of the night. We can be saviors, takers and…

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