Browsing through souvenirs
I am reminded of you.
The door to the past swings open
releasing sleek eels of memories
where I am nothing or at best
a trembling leaf lost on a autumn breeze.
Do you ever think of me?
See me in constellations pressed against the sky,
hear me in the surge of the tide?
I would seek comfort in the moon but I am
so trivial and he is taken by the stars.
In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake
Hungrily flicking the skin of your thigh
curling around the catch in my throat.
He is god and has named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers.
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy
From my swing
I spot the Monarch
sipping from a nectary,
gently I snare him
by his dew drenched wings.
I wonder if he knows
his fate lies in my hands.
Clutched between my fingers
imagine how his heart pounds.
When she was young
she would run to the fountain,
swept up in the lyrics of
a misty waterfall.
Held beloved in a never changing world she mined a treasure all gardeners strive to grow,
lilies poppies and marigolds.
With time the sky darkened and the earth grew cold and no arms waited at the waterfall.
Photo by suswiss
She soars above the clouds
as silent as the wind
lifted by an updraft
an undetectable realm of light
her receptors focused on a
brocade of pearls,
a shimmer of doves.
Shadowing the weakest
the broken winged
her talons unsheathed
streak the sky cerise.
Gladwell Patterson Art
The world is wintry blue.
Vast and still yet there
is no comfort in the quiet.
The wolf inside me shakes
the snow from her fur,
travels through dark timbered
forests and blue gray mountains.
There are others moonstruck,
dusted with the same shine.
Together we trace a midnight
hover of crows unaware.
Autumn leaves have begun to fall.
Late October London is ablaze in hues of orange and purple.
On my bench by the river I daydream that I am an adolescent
reptile escaped from Kafka’s Die Verwanlung,
laid back basking in the sun.
The air is layered in heavy cologne but men don’t interest me now.
I am content to casually observe.
To my advantage I know all about them
while they know so little about me.
Thinking of you against my wishes, dying a little,
dead all the sweet hope of dreams never realized
I imagine my earthly body padded, sat beside yours on a grassy knoll
to breathe in the scent of lilac and the mossy green River Delta.
In the dark I am nude but for a shadow across my torso.
You are so near and to distract my self from this burning desire
I let my thoughts linger among the lines of Roethe’s “In A Dark Time”.
Years pass and by chance we meet at the sad cafe. I sway in your arms like a fragile birch in an autumn tempest. The halo of my eyes glisten recalling how we gave away what we never really had. We hold each other knowing that love has died and we with it.