For Pablo

When I came for you
I was not searching.
Wild and beautiful your
lids heavy with desire
I sipped Santiago raindrops
from your tongue  and
salt-rose tears fell from
my eyes.
At the hour of  departure my heart
became a dying bird with
wide wings unfastened and open.
”unfastened and open” from Pablo Neruda’s poem “A Night On the Island”
A Night on the Island
by Pablo Neruda
I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

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!

Art Gowns

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…

My Sword and Shield....

 
 
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

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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

She’s Not A Lady

House of Heart

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]

art by Karol Bak

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