I still feel you

at the razor edge of madness

the fierce break of waves along

 the sea line

in dark amber eyes that catch mine 

in musty corridors of dreams

I  feel you in the wild of wolves

in  vigils of  nightingales at my

midnight window

I  feel you in the sacred ache

of   my  bones

 

art by Karol Bak

Falling

Wide  walls of

water tumble into deep pools

spilling over slippery quartz.

Grasping at jagged edges

She steps onto the mossy sludge,

sinks into  soggy pockets of

blue-green algae.

Slender fingers  grab at  veiny

pulleys of the  forest yet when

She reaches they resist.

The water is screaming indignation,

a fury thrashing upon stone,

Penance for thwarting

it’s downward path and there is

no way to console them.

Retribution is why She comes here,

a pounding  retaliation,

the sting of needles on her back

stones soothed by wrath.

 

 

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The world is beautiful

The world is beautiful

with its splendor of all kinds of green and the chirping of black-robed  blackbirds groping about, and  sun and moderately cool air, and inconspicious pedestrians, meek traffickers of tobacco and booze. After we make love she must get pretty again, while I prepare dinner, we have it with candles and strings that sing us into a warm and mild night. Other times we go to the theatre, opera, concert, café, end up in bars and into her dreams I tell her the night. What I have to offer to her is stolen from books she could read herself if so inclined. How, I think, can anyone stand the boredom of life undrunk?  She bites my ear, but for how long can she play this game? Along my voice reading her novels she glides over posh and fine accents into dreamlands I hummed to her. And when she awakes again and again, she expects from her lover to tell her, the world is a beautiful place.

That’s easy for me, as easy as clouds rain down and bees fill their honeycombs and inside warm smiles I nakedly linger into our days. We feed us new life and do not fear death but rather what will make us die. I hurt her, she hurts me, we do not abandon each other. Together we stay until cosmic symmetries break up and make the world whole. As if we as lovers never existed, your smell on my linen sails away into and out to this beautiful world

Copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski

The Letter

House of Heart

I left a message for you in a book.
It is like me to mark provocative phrases,
to shake them out in ponderous verses.
Do not read too much in the fallout,
the notes in the border are for nostalgia’s sake.
I dreamt of you again last night.
My adversary, always teasing me.
Your aura I barely recall yet you linger,
the suffering is in not knowing what is real
and what isn’t.

papers.co-aw53-yanjun-cheng-girl-green-sexy-illustration-art-paint-4-wallpaper-260x460

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Desperate Gardens

House of Heart

Near daybreak, my eyes close,

my mind steps down into our most

beloved poem

*In a dark timethe eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade …

I look out upon our desperate gardens.

A raven sits motionless on the branch

of a skeleton tree greedily eyeing the

tiny lark all feathers and bone.

In the state between sleep and wake

I traverse birth and mortality,

the faintest hint of earthy candles

sweeps the orb of my celestial dreaming

a sensation of  pearls like tiny moons

falling from my open palms ,

and you,  whose sigh is a strophe

of sonnets, waits far at the boundary,

not a spirit or  rose tinged snow

but flesh and bone and sinew.

Alone, now  I am sleeping less,

roused by the wing beats of Boreal Owls

circling ancient Cypress trees

their screech a fist of wind with knife edge

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a thousand years

Cover the sky with your hand.

The summit of your palm is the moon.

Your fingers are  streams of stardust

sweeping through an  ancient dune

or  the slender branches of forked trees.

Glide them across the  desert,

over valleys,  the soft and sediment.

I am every woman you have loved,

their dynamic wings beat in me.

Recall my eyes as history,

you have lived here a thousand years.

 

art by Louis Treserras

Maria Maria

House of Heart

The waves are endless,  rushing in to the dunes . They are moody and sleepy or screaming with anger,  anarchistic fury fighting destiny.   The sounds of the beach are constant.,   the boys whistle and  yell  “ay mami ”  but it doesn’t bother me.

 

When I am in Mexico

my name is Maria.

My hair is as black as

the Grammostola   spider,

it shines like the crystals of Playa Norte.

At night we disappear into the barrios,

lose ourselves to the funk of  Bossa,

sway to the sound of  carioca.

You whisper in my ear

 linda Maria

 

 

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Song of Seasons

Hold me in  fleeting hours

when we are beautiful and wild,

our flesh  full and ripe, winged creatures

drinking up the night  as honeysuckle

is sustained by the  sun and the rain.

Stay  when summer departs and the

garden sips at  laughter pooled in

the irides of  our eyes.

Lie with me in winter when the

birds hold their song,

tiny skeletons of  hollow bone

indifferent to the cold.

For you my lips are   petals,

sweet  reminders  of lost flowers.

If  you do not return

but fly on  to distant gardens

my body will seek shelter

beneath wings of tongueless birds.

House of Heart
Halt mich fest in flüchtigen Stunden
den schönen und wilden,
unser Fleisch ist voll und reif, geflügelte Wesen
saugen die Nacht auf, Jelängerjelieber,
die von Sonne und den Regen gespeiste.
Bleib, wenn der Sommer vergeht und der
Garten vom Lächeln nippt,
das aus der Iris deiner Augen blitzt.
Lieg bei mir im Winter, wenn die
Vögel zu singen einhalten,
winzige Skelette aus hohlen Knochen,
gleichgültig der Kälte gegenüber.
Für dich sind meine Lippen Blütenblätter,
süße Erinnerungen an verlorene Blumen.
Wenn du nicht zurückkehrst
sondern weiterfliegs, wird mein Körper Schutz suchen
unter den Flügeln zungenloser Vögel.
translated by Bernd Huschenreuther

canadianbeauty

art by Steve Hanks

Quietus

Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Carnal Apple by Pablo Neruda

 

 

I   feel the brush  of

your  hand as cold as winter’s breath,

glimpse you in lightning strokes  through my  window.

Your steps come and go down  halls still echoing with sorrow.

So  that you may see what is left of me

I’ve etched your eyes to mine.

We are more than  two  souls dismembered

by scythes of devastation that scattered

us like dried flowers.

 

He goes where gravity pulls  him,

through shimmering curtains

like the wind.

He slips down her cheek like a teardrop

to the hollow of her throat into dreams

that fade like  summer grass.

A  conscious finger of stars,

imagined hands   that  reach for

mown  fields,  the brush of weeping willows,

the shimmer of a cool pond.