sun down or the letter
I ran along the shore past the dunes and carnation houses. Scattered surfers lingered in the last rays of the day. A heat shimmer faded as I approached. I ran to it intent on vanishing beneath the gray veil. I am sure it began to rain. Fat globules of sea salt clung to my face leaking into my open mouth. Jagged edges of breath tore upward from my lungs. When I could run no farther I sank to the speckled sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Wails carried out on the wind and I covered my ears to block those guttural sounds of that pathetic creature, mutations of a wounded bird or the whimper of dying. The pain streamed out into the ocean and at last drowned in the sea. Nothing was left but silence.
Velvet Tango
I do just love this Resa! Thank you from my heart.
Visit the original for more mind blowing beauty!
Did you ever feel like making an Art Gown about the Tango?
If so, you may be thinkingpassion, desireand poetry in motion.
Those words also perfectly describe the prose of Holly – House of Heart. Art Gown Velvet Tango is dedicated to her. Holly, I hope you just love this!
Gigi (Georgiann from Rethinking Life) wrote some Tango poetry. With Gigi’s permission to use these pieces with an Art Gown dedicated to Holly, I began an epic 5 month building of Velvet Tango.
Holly thought a Tango gown could be black, red and silver. So, I immediately began deconstructing a red, 25 year old synthetic velvet coat that I never wear.
In the rear of a fabric jobbers, I found an old rayon bengaline lining for $4.00/yard. It was a splurge, but I bought 4 yards.
Tango dresses can feature lots of asymmetry and…
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The World is Beautiful
The world is beautiful with its splendor of all shades of green and the chirping of black-robed blackbirds groping about and sun and moderately cool air. The inconspicuous 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 theater, 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 hum 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. We hurt one another but we do not abandon us. Together we stay until cosmic symmetries break and make the world whole. As if we as lovers never existed. Your scent on my linen sails away into and out to this beautiful world.
Copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski
Die Welt ist schön
Die Welt ist schön, sei schön mit ihrem vielerlei Grün, umhertastendem Getschilp der schwarzkuttigen Amseln, ihrer Sonne, ihrem mäßig kühlem Wind, unauffälligen Fußgängern, devoten Schnaps- und Tabakverkäufern. Schön auch wegen der vollen Brüste meiner Geliebten und ihrer Geilheit. Danach muss sie erst wieder schön werden. Ich koche, wir essen, Kerze, Violinen, laue Nacht. Oder: Theater, Oper, Konzert, Café, Kneipe. Ich erkläre, sie träumt, laue Nacht. Es steht, was ich ihr sage, in Büchern. Sie kann lesen, kann Bücher lesen. Könnte. Wie kann man, frag‘ ich mich, ohne Schnaps in dieser schönen Welt ohne Langeweile existieren? Sie beißt mich ins Ohr. Aber wie lange kann sie das durchhalten? In die Nacht gleitet sie an meiner Stimme, die leise aber akzentuiert Schönes, eben: belles lettres, in sie summt, damit sie auf Schallschwingen in ihren Traum schwebt. Und immer erwacht sie und hofft sie, mein schöner Spiegel, dass ich ihr die schöne Welt noch einmal mehr zeige.
Das kann ich wie Wolken regnen und so leicht, wie Bienen Honig in Waben füllen. In ihrer lächelnden Wärme liege ich nackt in den Tag. Wir füttern uns Leben. Zu Scharfes wird nicht serviert. Nicht den Tod, aber was dazu führt ersparen wir uns. Wir muten uns ständig Schmerz zu aber nicht den großen, den Abschied, bis plötzlich ex nihilo Symmetriebrüche die Welt wieder werden ließen. Als wären wir nicht gewesen. Es hing noch ein Geruch von dir und mir im unvertäuten Laken. Das schwob davon. Die Welt ist schön.
copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski
wolves
In the state between sleep and wake
traversing birth and death
there is the faintest hint of earthy candles
macabre dreams interrupted by the
strophe of sonnets, a sensation of
spilling pearls like tiny moons falling
through my open palm.
At the boundaries I find you
not your spirit or rose tinged snow
but flesh and bone.
I am sleeping less now
roused by the wing beats of boreal owls
circling an ancient Cypress,
their knife edge talons entwined in sprays
of silky moss clinging to knotty branches.
Fitful wind gusts burst through barriers of
creaking walls vibrating my hemispheres into
consciousness. A celestial tapestry of recollection
lifts me over the valley to a moonlit hillside
of sweet lea where a silver wolf lies down beside me.
He is the scent of golden wheat and
his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.
Herbology…
Thyme, Mint, Honey, and Clove
ribbons in her auburn waves
she wove
A daughter of sunlight
framed in brown
would place upon
my head
a flowered crown
And kisses upon
my cheeks
so sweet
My pretentious heart would miss
a beat
Her voice
a song of
Springtime Faire
would bend
my knee
an oath to swear
That I’ll forsake
both country and crown
to feel her touch
of thistle down
Perchance to know
her secrets
deep
and thereby
pledge her love
to keep
Inside my Heart
til death recall
my spirit
or hers
beyond that wall
If she should go
before my light
I’ll dream of Her
every following Night
Thyme, Mint, Honey, and Clove
ribbons in her auburn waves
were wove
Her ghost, I’ll dream
but will never feel
her face
the morning light
shall steal
The Pale Window
The sun is still low in the sky, its rays have barely begun to pierce the chill of our pale window. Don’t go, we are scarcely out of dreaming. Feel my heart beat with the lifeline of your palm as my head rests in the crook of your shoulder. These fingertips you kiss one by one will ease the furrow of your brow and I will 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
“All art is erotic.” Gustav Klimt
Beautiful erotic art by Gustav Klimt at .
at a distance
From a distance she is a lilliputian island in a field of diamonds, chromatic lipped, dripping with cascading stars from waterfall skies.
Photo 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.
![Silence--by-Karol-Bak[1]](https://houseofheartweb.files.wordpress.com/2019/12/silence-by-karol-bak1.jpg?w=720)
art by Karol Bak
