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
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.
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
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
View original post 64 more words
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
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“
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.
art by Steve Hanks
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.
