If I Am Quiet

House of Heart

I can watch butterflies

float weightless over gardens

Stained glass collages of

amber rust and brown

set in facets of sable veins

they hover over flowers

compound eyes and fluttery feelers

faces smeared flaxen

too fine for the eye to see

Free from fear

death is not a concept on

that mystical journey

If I am silent I can watch.

art by Nature Works

View original post


We begin making things up by six or seven. Minds of hummingbirds we sip from wells of illusion. Come with me to the eddy of an ever prodding muse to dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.

I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown to meld with the chaotic masses, searching eyes infused with survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fades with the crowd. The strong scent of sweat and coffee stings my nostrils, clings to my skin. Alien faces are forever etched behind my eyes.

Making my way to the metro I pass the warehouse district. A young addict sleeps against the graffiti covered wall that like her unkempt hair turns golden in the sunset. Her arms are folded around her knees. Awakened from induced euphoria by the nudge of a worn boot she glances upward, her skeletal hand fumbles in the pocket of her threadbare jeans, fishes out a handful of dollars. Glancing in both directions he tucks it beneath his belt and in exchange hands her a small bag. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold. It reeks of urine here, even the stray dog lifts his feet. I glance her way again, leaving her to isolate to death.

Passing a vacant garden I pluck a flower and playfully slip it behind your ear. From the same garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to press my body against yours in search of that trigger, that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. When you go I can finally empty my mind of the devastation. I know you think it’s crazy but to me it makes sense.

Just before drowning

In this dream

I am in Paris.

It is just before dawn and

a man waits beneath a

street lamp.

A sad smile that doesn’t

reach his eyes passes

through me.

I am the memory of an

anonymous red rose.

Between lovers , he roams

the lonely streets at night

sinking  into eyes as deep

as the river Seine

the kind one might find

just before drowning.

Light in the Night by Paul Militaru (thank you Paul)

Loved Like Roses

From this room

where we meet in light and shadow

where love is made –

and war,

the stars reflect on a peaceful

field of blue iris.

I need to be loved like roses.

Silvery blades of a crescent moon

slice through fields growing wild.

Transparent things on winged feet

flit through silky Zoysia

nipping at life with amorous teeth.

Between Two Rivers

The dreamers walk among us . . . and so do the dreamed.

Maggie Stiefvater — ” Call Down the Hawks”

We circle the trees by the river where the swallows are darting above the branches. Spotting us they rise like a cloud and swirl on the current like some fantastical beast of air and feathers. Forming a dense echelon they darken the earth below them. At night they seek refuge in the crowns of ancient trees instinctively aware that they are near their destination. At dawn they take to the heavens again, the mission bells are calling them home.

Old Mission Painting - San Juan Capistrano by Mary Giacomini

art by Mary Giacomini

Inspired by a collaboration “The Swallows of Capistrano”

Cliff Girl

House of Heart

In my infinite smallness

looking out across the ocean

my arms are albino snakes

basking in the sun and the

hot sand burns my bare feet.

Pearls of abalone are strewn

across the sand and a

garland of stars is tied to nothing but my hand.

I am the universe lending life to

solid stone as the sun streams

down my throat where there is no voice.

A child’s laughter rings through

Ancient coves where

lovers await the rushing tide

to tumble them into the sun again.

Beneath my feet lies a carpet of Jacaranda

and my empty hands carry no burden but love.

art by Steve Hanks

View original post

The Sad Cafe (VIII)

I’m awakened by the sound of laughter drifting through the window of my small flat above the Café. From there I can see the cobblestone streets beginning to fill with partiers, snow piling at the curbside. My clock reads ten PM. Sinking slowly into a warm bath, my wet hair has the scent of lavender and smoke, my skin the smell of yesterday’s perfume mingled with the haunting presence of strong cologne and the sweet scent of sweat and rope. At the mirror I brush my hair and pull it back with a silver plated comb, slip into smoky seamed stockings and my clingy black frock. Making my way past the crowded bar I find my usual booth in the dark fringe of a deserted corner, order a glass of red wine and wait.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is img_8608.jpg

Denizen of Dreams

My dreams fade then return

where you are a denizen who

speaks in tongues I’ve yet

to learn.

Our dreams had weight yet

left no impression in the

the snow still our words turned

ice to smoke.

The memory of you vibrates

my hemispheres haunts my

nights where light and shadow


Now I’m held fast

forever revisiting the dream.

Why did you have to be so beautiful?

A little night music