the Park

Fascinated by his shabby sweater, cheap shoes, and expensive attaché I follow him through the park. Sitting down on a park bench he opens his brief case and pulls out an apple. He motions me sit beside him and offers me the apple. I take it though I’m not hungry, I resist the urge to arrange his unkempt hair and run my fingers over his unshaven chin. His dark eyes look through mine and into a well hidden soul.  He says he hasn’t worked in  a while and spends most of his afternoons by the pond watching the swans. Feeling as though I am eavesdropping a secret I stand, say good bye and lie, I have to go, I am late for an appointment. He asks me to come back again. I nod with no intention of returning.

That night I wake in a sweat. I rise and stand before my mirror, my hands lightly caress my body and my eyes spill unexplained tears. Compelled by longing we meet again and again. We feed yellow green pears to one another and like children our laughter echoes among the trees. The limbs of the Birch trees are alive with birdsong as though they sense our sweetness.

Too soon winter is breathing her cold breath through us. A snowy owl watches from the brittle bark of a branch. Where is the sun that burned like fire? The park is blanketed with hoarfrost, still camellia blossoms cling to broad leaved evergreens. Birds pull their frozen wings tight against their tiny skeletons.  Spring has shunned the park of sorrow. I tug his overcoat tightly across my shoulders, run my shiver of fingers through its rough threads. Overhead gray clouds reflect his eyes.  With no way to hold it back, we have lost one another. I call his name in the silence, in return a wild orchid tumbles down , I reach out my hand and catch it.

PS: written by John Hulme

“A shabby, tangled sweater, and a shabby, tangled life.

> Sometimes the most beautiful  of lives is just a fibre away from the ugliest.

> I’m scared, and lost, and alone,

> with the world’s most precious secret tucked underneath my arm,

> wondering whether to bury it in hoar frost or hold it high”.

copyright John Hulme

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Colline Cook-Chun

Brazilian R’s

Remember that starry night kissing the bending sky? We made it all the way to Mexico. A thousand miles later we hit the border swinging on a breeze heading straight for the coast. It was there you taught me the impossibility of Brazilian R’s and later we read Neruda’s Caballero Solo just for practice.

We were leaving each other more and more and there was no way to hold you back. Your soul was bound to die and mine to watch. Years later I found you stretched out in your messed up sheets your eyes starring into a distant galaxy.

Sweet Bird

After you left I jogged  along the shoreline past the carnation houses  along the jetties where scattered surfers waded hoping to catch the last waves.  A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain.  Globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Unearthly howls carried out across the waves dissolving into the sea.

I want to believe that the ocean is a froth meringue not a murky depth where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip and the rush of saltwater fills your eyes and mind but not the air.

Sea gulls swoop and squawk,  perfect black angles against the sky. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.

*So I close my eyes softly
’til I become that part of the wind
that we all long for sometime”

*Stevie Nicks

The Swallows of Capistrano

The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones. Her hair the color of cliff grass rises and falls over her face in the breeze.” ― Maggie Stiefvater, The Scorpio Races

Image Source: Pinterest


The Swallows of Capistrano

An Adventure story by Holly Rene Hunter and Hyperion Sturm

She’s Not a Lady

By Holly Rene Hunter

Winter does not empathize

with withered branches or

displaced birds fleeing waves

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 her billowed boughs

glistening folds and hallowed mounds

drift in otherworldly sighs

ensnared by her exquisite binds.


After a harsh winter, the dark pall of sickness, and far too much work, Renate is exhausted. She needs David. Only he can brighten her view of impending spring. Over the phone, they agree it’s time for another adventure, time to kick off the heavy blanket of work and the damp chill of muddy slurry that coats every surface of the streets and sidewalk.

Renate tells David the first thing on her mind. “I want to see the swallows of San Juan Mission in Capistrano, California. They are part of a legend, you know.”

“I think that’s a great idea, David replies. Let’s join the birds. We can use an ultralight plane and follow them from Panama, up the Baja to Capistrano.”

“The Ultralight is certainly a tempting ride. So much fun!” Renate’s mood is suddenly elevated at the thought of such a rash and thrilling thing.

“Indeed, picture the bouncing run across the local football field, soaring between the uprights. We high five with aviator gloved hands and feel the power of the engine and propeller behind us.” David’s vision makes the decision easy. 

Renate comments, “it’s just like riding a Harley.”

“Let’s go,” David replies.


We circle the trees by the river where the swallows are darting above the branches, anticipating our arrival. Seeing us, they rise in a cloud and swirl on the currents, seemingly like some fantastical beast of air and feathers. You point out the head of the formation as it comes together, and we swoop down and in front. They follow us as we set a pace for the long day’s ride. We are off to San Juan Mission in Capistrano; our adventure begins with a significant following of graceful birds and a beautiful blue sky.

“This adventure is exhilarating!” Renate imagines racing across the field to hop into the passenger seat just as the small plane takes off. The swallows, at first startled, recognize that we are going their way, and one by one, they form their echelon behind us, coasting on the air stream, “it’s going to be a great flight!”

When Renate takes the stick while David peers behind at their feathered entourage, She knows that straight level flight is a hazard brought on my the mesmerizing drone of the engine and the never varying horizon. For this reason, Renate turns them upside down, right side up, and swoops a bit left and right. 

As David held on to the framework for dear life, his light yellow aviator’s scarf flutters in a panic out the open window. He considers how much he likes how the scarf blends so fashionably with his explorer khakis. “It would be a shame if the scarf blew out the window with me still attached,” David teases.

Sitting hard as Renate rights the craft back to straight level flight, David Looks over at Renate’s stoic demeanor. He fixes his gaze on her expressionless face in a state of disbelief. Renate turns slowly toward David. In a moment, she smiles as one who has pulled off a historical heist. Incredulous, I stare until you mouth the word, whoops. Then we laugh like children on the playground. I glance back and see our Swallow cloud amused and more interested in keeping up. They know a fun adventure when they see one.

I am as free as the cloud of birds who stream silently behind us. To our surprise, a wide-winged swallow swoops above and in front of us to take the lead. Amazed and amused, we pull back and allow the swallow his rightful turn at the lead. Laughing, we relax and take our place among our V-shaped shadow of fellow travelers.

This adventure is turning out to be quite the experience. While we remain always enthralled at our meandering ultralight’s sensitivity to wind and the view of the land below, I am captivated as we sail north along the narrow isthmus between North and South America. 

We can see the ocean on both sides as they disappear over the horizon. Ahead is the old Spanish San Juan Mission in Capistrano, where our entourage flies inexorably, driven by a natural force of nature hard to imagine. My calculations say we are on time to be there on St. Joseph’s Day, and the arrival of the Swallows marks a celebration of their journey that has continued since 1930. 

For now, it is growing late, and I see our ever-growing flock has descended to circle the crowns of a magnificent forest and settle in for the night. “Shall we look for a landing spot on the beach nearby?”

Awed, we watch the Swallows descend into the tall trees. A few circle back to gather the last of their entourage, and together they quietly disappear into the ancient crowns of trees, somehow knowing they are nearing their destination and can finally rest. 

From our low altitude, we see a beach of packed sand bordered by a cliff. Wary of the incoming tide, David circles the strip. Willing to take our chances, he lands our small aircraft with a skip, and we roll to a stop near the cliff, far enough from the sea that later the incoming tide will not be a problem. 

Easing our cramped frames onto the sand, we begin to plan how we will spend our evening and night on the deserted strip of beach. As I stroll the edge of the water with bare feet, David searches the forest floor for tinder.

Our swallow friends have picked an excellent overnight site .While the birds chatter and settle into the ritual of foraging for their dinner, Renate and I must do the same. I gather enough firewood to cook our meal for the evening and keep us comfortable at night. Two slender saplings do a fine job of holding up our tarp fashioned into a shelter. 

Renate returns from her walk carrying a coconut and papaya she found growing near the beach’s edge. We’ll feast well tonight. “I have a surprise for us,” I say. Renate’s face light’s up with a joyful intrigue as she offers me the treasures she found. 

“And I have a surprise as well.” We laugh and enjoy a playful banter as the long hours in the ultralight plane drain out of stiff muscles. I present the canopy we used on our balloon ride and spread it out under the tarp next to the fire. Then I bring out two small glasses and pour a portion of our beloved pear wine. 

While our skewer of savory delights retrieved from our small ice chest roasts over the fire. We sit together and watch the sunset in magnificent display across an endless sea, lapping at the shore in gentle waves and soothing sounds, our nature’s romantic symphony.

Lying back, we watch the stars that dance like diamonds on the water. Sipping the pear wine that goes right to Renate’s head, She listens intently to the night sounds, the rustle of palm fronds, and the ocean waves rolling in like slick sea lions glimmering beneath the crescent moon. Her body aches from the long flight, yet she is not tired but exhilarated. Suddenly, emboldened by the wine, she strips off her outer clothing, and ruffling David’s hair, she hurries to the water’s edge, motions for him to follow, and dives beneath the dark waves.

Renate’s playful nature is why David’s romantic heart has fastened to her and refused to let go. Her love of life, adventure, and spontaneous free spirit is the essence of her beguiling magic. He watches as her feet kick up petite geysers of sand sparkling in the golden light. The last rays of the day draw a sharp outline of her feminine beauty, and David wastes no time in losing his khakis as he hurries after his love. 

They play like children in the surf, splashing, chasing, dodging, a choreography of desire and passion. Echoes of their laughter resound from the cliff rising out of the sand behind them, drawing the attention of swallows that watch motionless and feel the need to be closer to each other. Finally, the enamored couple falls into each other’s arms, settling into the water until it tickles their shoulders. 

The world grows quiet where only the sounds of nature resume except for the occasional sound of pleasure that only a deep and abiding love can make. As the sun disappears, leaving the horizon to fade from blaze orange to powder blue under a cobalt sky, Renate and David walk hand in hand back to their shelter. 

The two lovers resume their evening of celebration as the last flames of their fire flicker over a bed of crimson coals, and the true beauty of the human form is displayed in contrasts of warm light by the fire and grasping darkness of dancing shadows and night.

When she’s with David, all inhibition seems to slip away, and she lives in the moment because that is what they have. No past or future, just the infinite present. And she is wild and free and takes him with her into that sea that they do not fear but become part of every chance offered. In those starlit waters, they entwine like creatures beckoned by the gods of the seas, welcomed by this watery paradise.

He carries her ashore as if she is a treasure just discovered, and they lie down on the tarp of that faithful balloon. The swallows, their feathered heads beneath their wing, rest in the crowns high above, and the enraptured lovers dream of the old mission that calls to them.

David awakens to a new dawn with the fragrant sizzle of smoked bacon mingling in his mind. The rich aroma of campfire coffee and sweet yeasty biscuits merge with the bacon in the chill air, and David’s stomach rumbles its approval. 

The reflection of the sun off the calm water paints Renate in a golden glow. She focuses on her skillet in the fire and offers her neck as David wraps his arms around her and teases Renate with soft kisses. 

“I’m having eggs, bacon, biscuits, and coffee, she says. What do you plan to have for breakfast?” She teases and pulls away slightly. 

David pretends to pull her back from the skillet she is so intent on watching and whispers, “I’ll have you, but I’ll wait until you are well fed,” they laugh at their lover’s game, but protest is not what the glow on Renate’s face portrays. 

After breakfast and time to enjoy the morning quiet, it is time to go. The birds are beginning to stir, and it won’t be long before the forest erupts in a whirlwind of black on white feathers with rust-red neckbands filling the air in a cacophony of shrill calls to come, take flight, and follow me. 

David services their ultralight plane while Renate packs their few belongings. Soon, the engine roars to life and bumps down the beach before lifting the nose and soaring up against the incoming winds, turning on a hard bank, and circling over the trees to gather the swallows. More have joined overnight, and the cloud of birds twist and turn like a giant dragon’s tail a mile long.

We have been flying for several hours, the swallows have gathered by the hundreds, perhaps thousands, the sky is silent, but for the whir of our small aircraft and the flock that follows. They are nearing the end of their journey, and we can hear the bells ringing in honor of St. Joseph and the swallows. David and I smile, knowing we have arrived at precisely the right moment. 

Ceremonies have begun, a party of celebrators, native dancers, and Tushmal Singers fill the air with Ajachemen Prayer Songs. We are overwhelmed with the sight, and knowing we are but an interloper in this ancient tradition, we find a small runway and slowly glide to a stop in the grassy path. 

The Swallows perform a Mission Flyover, and I could swear they tip a wing in our direction. We hold each other, laugh and kiss, overwhelmed by this journey and fantastic adventure to witness a glorious phenomenon.

Later we visit the “Jewel of the Missions,” built by native Americans, and the Serra Chapel. We are growing tired but will not rest until we explore the Great Stone Church and the original padres’ quarters of the South Wing Mission. Along the route of the celebration, we pick up bites to eat and drink. At dusk, we sense that the time has come for us to procure fuel and head back to the light aircraft that seems to wait patiently for us. 

David fills the small tank and, using his hands, hoists me up to the passenger seat and then seats himself behind the wheel. He pushes the throttle with his right foot to get thrust and pushes out the bar for lift, and we are off. The lights reflect off the indigo waters as we trace the route we arrived on earlier. The scent of night air, sea, and salt is exhilarating. I place my hands on Davids’s shoulders and gently massage his tense neck muscles. We have a long way to travel but smile in agreement; it has been well worth it.

Again, Renate adds the perfect glow to a perfect ending. Even as they race across the sky, the ground below seemingly moves with a slow, deliberate undulation beckoning to the next adventure. The racing sloop they just invested in is only a few hours flight up the coast. It sits low in the water, still and lonely at the port, and has no lively energy until they arrive and bring their sloop to life. 

The enamored couple discusses the need to name their new ship of dreams before they depart for another island-hopping adventure. They decide to overnight on their racing sloop and discuss their sojourn together over their first dinner on board. Later, they rest in each other’s arms on the sprawling bed gazing out the wide portal across the gentle seas they will soon sail.

Bourbon Street

Late afternoons I sit at the counter of a small diner sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn into night or dollar green but it seems as Gershwin said, not for me. It is dog days and I am hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love fading so soon. I dream myself into a hot soak in a fancy clawed foot bath tub sinking my dusty body into lilac scented bubbles. I imagine lying back with closed eyes as the hot water flicks at peony nipples. I am what one might call self-employed these days.
Settling for a motel shower stall I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolias with rose scented oil until it glimmers like alabaster. Slipping into a black sheath, silver seamed stockings and stiletto heels saved for the occasion, I make my way onto Bourbon Street. At the corner the sounds of a sax carries through the open door of a dimly lit bar, it drifts up the alley over the roof of a brothel falling into gentle ruin. From my booth there I stare through a prism of glass at the Dog Star and blow a kiss to the man in the moon already yawning at the deep purple sky.

Night Music

Balloon Ride

The melancholy of endings out of my mind, I follow Renate up the path toward our colorful steed as her hips sway with each step, her sarong accentuating her curves. Yes, this must surely be the wind that moves through his undershirt. He is a kite, a balloon.”

― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

Image Source: US Balloon Team


The Balloon Ride

A Collaboration by Holly Rene Hunter and Hyperion Sturm

Blood Rose

By Holly Rene Hunter

 The night is wet 

 drops of rain glisten 

 on the slick sidewalks. 

 In my hurry, I dodge 

 the  dark puddles that 

 Glisten in the misty glow 

 of amber street lamps 

 There is a trace of rosy 

 blood where I have bitten 

 my lip but my eyes brim 

 with life and nonsensical love 

 When we meet, we smile 

 and kiss silvery lashes 

 The taste of blood rose on 

 shivering lips 

 For the moment, we forget 

 You want too much and 

 I will take whatever you give. 


Renate watches David gaze out the window of her London flat at St. Thomas Hospital. The hundreds of years St. Thomas has given aid to the sick do not remove Renate’s nemesis as her purpose in life. Her warm breath on his neck and her legs across his lap tighten his hold around her shoulders, bringing her nearer, enveloping his awareness with what she so freely gives. She feels a warm desire that peaks into a frightful need as lips begin the communication of their renewed love for each other. 

The Chipped blood-red of Renate’s toenails and her hands show the wear of constant cleansing. She doesn’t care. Her hair is clean and her body soft and fragrant, the way David likes her. She falls, or David pushes her down on the couch. It doesn’t matter how she ended up with him smothering her under his weight. It only matters that he is there with her.

Renate glances through the haze of the Hospital grounds. She decides not to think about anything but David as he settles into her soul finding his place in the void she holds for him. She is 38 now, but David makes her feel 21.


“I can see Paris again. David whispers in the morning. I can’t escape it and don’t want to. You conjure such romantic images, and yes, with a touch of old school noir. My favorite,” He says.

They load the BMW and take the chunnel to France, following the Seine River to Paris, beautiful Paris where it all began. Once settled into their room above their beloved Sad Cafe, it is time to catch the live band downstairs to celebrate another year of their lives shared in a mystery with no need for a solution.

“David, we must stop meeting on the streets of Paris hanging out at the Sad Cafe; we do love people-watching though,” Renate shifts and turns her head toward the window of the cafe to give David a glance at her neck and shoulder.

“It’s true. Sitting and watching people stroll by and reading a story from their face and how they lift or slump their shoulders is like a library of humanity.” David replies, his eyes fixed on her. The magic of her appeal never fades in the years they have carried on their love affair. David believes Renate grows more radiant and beautiful with every year that passes. 

“Since we’re still up, would you like a decaf cappuccino or perhaps a sample of the Green Fairy to tickle the muse?” David asks.

“The Green Fairy will do nicely. I hope they won’t have to ask us to leave. I hate that.” 

“Cheers, my love! Here’s to Paris nights under a full moon. They won’t ask us to leave if we don’t mind relocating to one of the upstairs party rooms where all the regulars stay after closing time. I find the after-hours crowd lively and entertaining. Shall we join the creative members of the Paris avant-garde?” David asks, his eyes twinkle as he awaits Renate’s approval. 

“You know I wouldn’t miss that. I’m always willing to relocate upstairs and get acquainted with the regulars,” Renate replies, facing back to David, and searching his face for clues. She feels the butterflies in her stomach rise as she imagines the late-night hours in the city of lights under an approving moon.

“You are an adventuress at heart, Renate. Among the regulars, we will learn the best places in Paris that are unhurried, and off the main path, rich in the Paris culture of music, the arts, and my favorite, the cuisine, and fine drinks. Do you have your pearl inlay flask? I bet we can acquire a fine vanilla-infused brandy to fill it. What a harmony that would be.” David’s face beamed with delight with a touch of blush from the drink and dance.

“It would be lovely to go off the beaten path in Paris, David. During waking hours, join me for a ride in a hot air balloon over Paris; this will only come to fruition after one too many drinks at the Pigalle bar or a bit of courage from my pearl inlay flask.” Renate leads David in a subtle way to her desire for a romantic adventure.

“You read my mind through yearning glances when we passed the Pegasus Balloon field off the rue Antoine Bourdelle. Can you imagine it is like the gods and goddesses of the Bronze Age looking down at pastoral lands at sunrise and judging it worthy? To see the farmlands painted in golden light through a lens offered from your pearl flask of dreams is a beguiling I would throw myself into without the burden of thought. Yes. We must do this.”


“It’s a surreal dream floating above the city at sunrise. Below, the world is just awakening. The patchwork wheat fields and forests far below come alive with Lilliputian creatures. We can’t hear a sound in our bubble drifting just below the clouds. We should never descend but let the flames carry us to distant enchanting destinations. We must,” Renate insists with the melody of a song in her voice.  

“We can bring a light pack to carry us in comfort wherever we might go. I checked, and in the quiet stillness of autumn, the prevailing breeze leaving Paris will take us over England and Scotland where we can turn west over the islands and float down by the west coast of Ireland,” David mused in dreamy tones. 

“We’ll see the Norwegian Sea to the east and the Atlantic to the west as we leave the highlands of Scotland to the Outer Hebrides islands. Of course, if you prefer, we could head north over the Orkney Islands and land in the Shetland Islands, a place of quaint country life and small fishing villages along the craggy shores,” David continued, his eyes fixed as if in a trance.

“So many would dream of finding the courage we dare to possess, but none shall see the world as we have seen it; slow, gentle, beautiful ancient lands of our ancestors in fall splendor. Pack light, we can go to local markets and cafés for our immediate needs. Should I bring a hammock?” David finishes his soliloquy and glances with mischief in his eyes.

“It sounds so wonderful, Babe. I can hardly wait to see the world through the eyes of the green fairy high above the world. I think we should catch a Caribbean breeze and spend a while in Aruba and the Virgin Islands, then on to the south Pacific, take in the archipelago of Tonga, and on to Samoa, Renate answers, her excitement growing. Who knows where the breezes will take us, Maui? Bring a Hammock by all means.”

“My study of the wind charts show me you have a remarkable intuition for a balloon ride that need not set close boundaries, David said. Instead of setting down in Ireland, we’ll sail across the Atlantic and make landfall in southern Mexico for some good beach time and fiesta. Then it is across the Pacific Ocean south of Hawaii where the South Sea islands offer an abundance of opportunity for Polynesian culture, cuisine, and their festive moods,” He concludes. Upon seeing the enthrall on Renate’s face, David ventures further down the path of their shared fantasy, reaching for Renate and gently tugging at her waist. She moves closer until he feels her warmth through his shirt.

“Further still, the winds will take us to Manila in the Philippines, where the story of tribal things begins. There is nowhere an island jungle will be so welcoming. The Filipino people in the countryside are the most gracious of hosts, and for a smile and thank you, they will take you anywhere you want to go. Their genius for life and their strength of the heart is second to none, and the beauty of their waterfalls quickly tells you that Hawaii was never a true paradise if one visited the Philippines.”

“It sounds so lovely, David.” 

“We can go there and beyond until we are back in Paris. But there is no hurry under the balloon as it sails across the oceans, mountains, and fertile lands of verdant shimmer, like jade under a clear Milky Way.” David paused to appreciate the vision he saw of their journey.

“Please tell me more,” Renate whispered as her fingers drifted in a delicate search between the buttons of David’s shirt.

“Yes, well, perhaps you would enjoy the west African coast, deserted for miles and miles, standing like a fortress wall to a sea that never stops the brushing touch of cool blue waters on an orange peel shore. There, the balloon can rest while we picnic on its shady side and look across the ocean that always appears abandoned. We’ll be the only souls to record that moment in earth’s blue history. Then, we can decide to go to another place or not decide at all and let our faithful companion, a balloon of patchwork and happy colors, take us where it wills according to the wind we cannot see but hear and feel on our face like the breath of life from Mother Gaia. Yes. We must tell this story too.” The two lovers pause in a moment to share in their dream. Pliant skin becomes the cake frosting plowed by an insatiable finger not wanting to be known. 

Renate draws a hastened breath from David’s answer to her touch. She senses passion overcoming desire. “While you study your wind chart, we sail on the breeze past the Cliffs of Dover out and away until we are but a dot caught between the blue of heaven and the rolling waves below. You make your notes, a captain’s journal, lest we forget the slightest minutiae of this dream. The turquoise waves wash ashore onto sun-bleached shells and from the lush sea grape the banter of brilliant macaw Beckons in the distance. You lower the flame, and we descend onto the white sand beach of the Philippines.” Her words are cut short by a kiss that is more than a kiss. It is the fugue of dreams washing over her pointed toes, the ridges of her tightened thighs, her belly tucked safely under expanding ribs as she feels the sea and sand caress her under a hot sun watching and waiting for surrender. 


“We are a suffusion of joy and enchantment. I love how you study my mischief and wonder what I plan for us next,” David said.

We turn north along the shore as I draw hard on the steering ropes, and the furnace roars like a tiger whose tail I have pulled. Our balloon of sunshine colors heels along the shore until the breeze lifts us in a sudden twirl. The shy coast glows like the cheeks of a schoolboy kissed by his favorite K-pop Star. 

Crystal rivers pouring from the tropical mountains of lush green glisten with sunlight like a pirate’s chest of gold and gemstones. You point to the ridge of the hill, the shape of a dragon’s back. “Aurora National Park,” I say. Below is a crescent of an isolated beach, a pearl in the jade dragon’s claw. Beyond is an orchard and a small village. The villagers welcome us to our new home as the balloon races like a stallion to the barn.

“I am breathless with the beauty of this enchanted land; a thick forest of trees cover the mountains whose tops are kissed by clouds,” Renate exclaims. The indigenous people hurry to greet us. “I think we will stay here awhile.”

“I was hoping you would enjoy the stay. Life need not have a pace anymore. There is only the rhythm of life marked by the stars at night and the sun during the day—the sun’s rising and setting in all the hues of light mark the passing of time. When we’re restless, our beloved balloon will ferry us to new adventures in other exotic lands. For now, I think a coconut filled with ambrosia and some beach time will do nicely. My, what a beautiful music the birds make,” David said, revealing his enthrall.

“I’ll cook lunch while you rest. We’re having seafood fresh off the village boats, if that suits you, my dear?” David said. 

“I’ll be relaxing in the hammock sipping a samalamig while dinner grills over an open fire as the sun sinks below the horizon. Such a lovely day. Join me?” No gentleman would refuse Renate’s invitation, and David certainly is a gentleman. 

“I don’t mind if I do join you. Samalamig is a big hit, guaranteed to give you plenty of energy, which you’ll need tonight when the sun goes down, David replies. The villagers are hosting a traditional dance celebration in your honor. Not many ladies descend from the heavens here, so they are quite pleased you selected them as your host.”

“Definitely. I’ll let you decide if we are going to the village or getting back in the balloon,” Renate adds.

“I want to celebrate with these warm and hospitable people, and then we can take the next morning off for some more beach time. The evening trade winds will take us across the South China Sea to Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Myanmar on our way to Mandalay and across the Bay of Bengal to India. 

Each stop along the way promises to be a more ancient mystery, wild, and exotic. It’s a good thing we packed our Khaki’s and pith helmets. Indiana Jones loved this part of the world. I’m sure we will as well.” David adroitly handles the burner and ropes that open the gas release flaps. The balloon descends into the waiting arms of the villagers.

“Who could or would want to resist this adventure? Tomorrow we’ll catch the evening trade winds, up and away.” Renate tosses the anchor rope to a waiting villager dressed in the traditional attire with tanned leathery skin and deeply calloused hands. She returns his welcoming smile.


Look how we chase the sunset across green fields and thatch roofs. Our balloon gallops in the wind with clouds on the backs of blue whales. Smoke from cooking fires rises through the canopy, a mystical spirit ambling up toward us, but they are too slow, and our balloon outpaces the challengers that call out in the wind like sirens from rocky shores. We are on the way to Mandalay, and our balloon knows just what to do to get us there while we chase old Sol to the purple-hued mountains beyond the horizon.

“I’ve poured you a glass of pear wine from the village. Cheers.” Renate offers the glass to David, and they exchange a wordless glance. 

“Asian pear wine has always been a favorite of mine. It is the elixir of the Babaylan. It calls them to their Yin energy to be our spirit guide and travel with us so that we may see the true beauty of the world from our cloud dwelling balloon. They are the divine feminine, the mother energy that nurtures life and protects the young from a merciless awakening too soon. We are innocent children of their ancient powers, and we can only see and sense the beauty all around us. No scary thought will find us now,” David said, raising the glass to Renate’s and savoring the tiny clink and the fruity fragrance of the wine.

“Our spirit guide travels with us, and I’ve fallen under the spell of the Babaylan,” Renate said.  

By day we sail above the deep indigo waters of the open seas enchanted by creatures big and small. Whales call out to us, and you point to a pair of dolphins that glisten beneath the sun in a mating ritual. The wind carries the scent of jacaranda,  it lifts and dips, and we are giddy with the mystical beauty and pear wine. 

“I love that you enjoy the fragrance of the jacaranda as it slips on currents across the lands and seas of all continents. Nowhere is the beauty of this flower rejected.  When we get to Islamabad, we will see the jacaranda as tall trees with broad crowns lining the street with its trumpet flowers of royal purple.” David explains as he sips his wine with one hand and releases a whoosh of flame ten feet tall into the cavernous balloon. The balloon lurches like a spurred Arabian Horse.

After our grand sleep and dreams of faraway things, we see the rising sun radiating with golden splendor from the spires of 9th-century temples and palaces. See how they peer above the lush forests, and beyond are the mountains that form the banks of the ancient and noble Irrawaddy River. We will land on Mandalay Hill overlooking the old royal city. 

Our hosts will take us to the temple where a welcoming dance handed down from ancient times will tell us the secrets of the Orient in a language that makes no sound. Only the dancer’s face, hands, and feet will speak. The mesmerizing music blends with the incense of sandalwood and spices. Golden bangles are worn on the dancers’ arms and legs and ring like small bells in rhythm as we enter the trance of tranquility. 

We can call it Elysium or Atlantis. We can say it is the real paradise, but whatever we call it, the dreams, within dreams, will prepare us for the next leg of our journey where the earliest civilizations of the western world sprang up 30,000 years ago. There more doors will open. But first, let us greet our hosts and descend upon this hill. The grandest features of humans await us with open arms and infectious smiles. 

“I hope being loved and hugged by benevolent and beautiful strangers is not distressing for you,” David said. The twinkle of stars catches in his eyes, and Renate warms to his touch.


The sky is deep blue, clusters of stars wink and twinkle. No sound of living things is heard, just the gentle sweep of waves over sand. A breeze gently rocks the hammocks between the Limbo Gumbo until silvery lashes lower, and sleep returns them to a deep purple dream. 

Purple dreams come as a spiritual lover. The mix of Blue is for the calm of the deep blue sea beneath the surface, and the red is the fierceness of creativity, the warm essence of love that advocates for peace, compassion, and the empathy to feel every nuanced emotion of their self and soulmate. The body is well-nourished and ready for the sweet dreams under the silk of a night sky. 

The air is still, the heat of a rising sun glitters on the waters. Macaw signals to one another, pecking the fruit of overripe mangoes. The travelers awaken; just for a moment, they are strangers until they rise like the sun, grasp the hand of the other, and, mesmerized by the sound of roaring waterfalls, venture deeper into the lush forest. 

The sun makes the beach around the falls warm and inviting, but the water is cold and clear with small circles of waves rushing out from the basin to lap at venturing toes. Behind the falls is an open cave where the intrepid pair looks through the cascade of water and feels the cool air’s relief from the radiant sun. Together they leap through the crystal curtains and into the frothy water. At first, chaos greets them in a bubbling spray, and then like a magic incantation, everything is clear, and they can stand, seeking each other’s warmth as they play and frolic in the refreshing water as otters do.

The multicolored parrots and wide-winged Toucans swoop ever closer to the playful pair whose own laughter mingles with the ever-changing trills and whistles of the birds, echoing through the surrounding caves and trees. The two romantics discover an aquamarine spring bubbling at the surface, the two dive into its depths. Holding tightly to one another, they resurface. Coming up for air, they sit on the large stones surrounding the waterfall, let the hot sunburn their shoulders and warm their bodies.  Nothing is said as they rest on the rocks, occasionally dipping their hand or toes into the cold water.  Will they lift off at sunrise to fly on to new destinations or wander further into the opulent jungle? 

Paradise seems a luxury that only chance can provide, but it isn’t by chance they share such wonders. The sleepy pleasure of radiant warmth from the rocks and sun contrasts with nature’s energy in its symphony of sound and verdant scenery bespeckled with the vibrant colors of exotic birds and flowers. The chill of the water is alive with sensation and the adoring countenance of lovers captive to the afterglow of nurture and nature. 

David sits up and looks far beyond any close thing. He dreams of never leaving or parting. Yet, deep in his spirit is a restlessness that tells him he hasn’t seen it all nor plumbed the real depth of his love for Renate. They must travel further together to know the azimuth of their journey experienced hand in hand. Now, he is pleased to lie down next to the only love he has known and feels everything without a thought or a meaning. The wind upon their face and the horizon stretched out beneath them will come again when they are ready. 


David turns to renate, reclining on the smooth stones like a Modigliani painting, and shares his thoughts. “I begin to see the many colorful threads of poetry weaved into our tapestry that tells a fantastic story to the senses spellbound in the telling. I imagine the tapestry whole, each thread locked into place with the utmost care and skill. Something in me does not want to know the final scene in the finished masterpiece. I want it to continue at least until I’m safely scattered among the stars.” 

“That is so beautiful, David. Safely scattered among the stars, heavenly. I think that is a fine place to linger, among the constellations.” 

“I think among the constellations is so much better than the underground option. The view is so limited there.” 

“Never a fan of that option,” Renate replies, a wry tone was slipping through her vocal cords.

“Hades and Persephone have enough visitors to entertain, and it’s going to get more crowded as their place gets more popular. Among the stars, we are free to go on a self-guided tour wherever we like, and the attractions are endless,” David muses.

“I hope we can swing over Orion’s Belt, and the Archer, my favorite. It’s getting so crowded down under, I don’t know where they will put everyone,” Renate replies, fully aroused by David’s vision.

“I wonder if our fascination with Mars has anything to do with opening a new venue for the down under dwellers? I’ll bet the brightest star in Orion’s Belt is a much more lovely place, a nice stopover on the way to see The Archer, who just so happens to be pointing at the center of our galaxy. I know that it has to be a hint, we should go there too. Not everyone has a hot air balloon. We must use it wisely.” 

“So true, Renate replies. We should only go to those places that nourish the soul and leave us breathless with wide-eyed wonders, like that first time we saw a horseshoe crab in the surf at low tide or dolphins playing in calm seas at daybreak.” 

“Yes, oh yes, I see it now. David rises and looks to the heavens. Pink beaches and that unique ocean hole full of mystery and water creatures. Such a fine string of islands like fine jewelry for Mother Gaia. I imagine the Flamingos shuffling along, their heads underwater, and those parrots calling to one another. I wonder what they talk about with so much chatter? 

“It’s time to enjoy our hammocks, with that fine mesh cover you can open to gaze out over the ocean or zip closed to rest bug-free. I spared no detail attending a gentle slumber or longing daydream nestled in a cocoon of comfort rocked by a seaborn breeze. Your pearl flask will come in handy on this trip. Remind me to make sure the burners for the balloon are topped off.” David yawns and stretches. Renate covers her mouth to stifle the contagion of yawning.

“We could hit the mid-morning surf and then sail on in the calm of the noon sun. I find that exhilarating to be so bold and unfettered,” Renate says as they collect their belongings.

“I’m certainly working hard to get to that carefree line of departure. I have decided it’s time to enjoy life because I worked like a rented mule to be free someday. I think the day has come for us, Renate.”

“It’s delightful, no clocks, no timeline, free as birds, Renate adds. 

What say we embark for Bora Bora and linger there for a while by the turquoise water and pink sands, then onward to Tahiti? The natives are friendly. I’m keeping a fishnet ready to go.” 

“I love the idea of Bora Bora as an appetizer for Tahiti. Those clear turquoise waters reveal the ocean’s life below. Dolphins follow us as we drift just above the waves to catch a little spray to cool our wicker basket and enjoy the Dolphins’ songs with the waves pounding the beat. That should have us in the right mood for the spontaneity and happy celebration of the Tahitian people. That net will come in handy. I think seafood is on the menu. I’ll bring some good wine, just in case,” David replies.


By day we explore sandy beaches, rocky inlets, lie back and observe the ever-changing Tahitian sky. We’ll dive the waters for fish to dine on as we explore our map and dream of moving on, careful not to become too attached to the natives or the wild herbs they forage for us, mandrake and morning glories and wild mushrooms that stir fevered dreams. Our time here is limited, and we must sail to the undiscovered. “Bring wine in case the natives run out of wild mushrooms,” Renate reminds David. 

Such a day as this is the ritual of pleasure that prepares one for the evening festivities. By the ocean with sunset blazing its warm colors across a grassy field, we watch a show of fevered song and dance. We sip a tea made from the dream spices as the cooks a short distance away, mind the preparation of our catch marinated in coconut cream and lime picked from nature moments before. The people call it Tamaaru. 

The soft notes of their explanation fade behind the strum of ukuleles, and a stunning woman sings us the traditional Tahiti Noi so full of vibrant energy bursting from her as her eyes and flowing undulations beckon us to our feet. But it is only the beginning as the tea lures us deeper into the salty sea of Polynesian culture. Men in elaborate headdress and long-tailed loincloth, their bare thighs bulging with strength and banded in dense Tahitian tattoos, dance the dance of ancient warriors, their eyes dark and fierce. 

The fire reflects in Renate’s dilated hazel eyes transfixed in a vision only she can see. I glance your way to judge your awakening in the dream. Yes, you are there, and no doubt, I am too. 

Now, the women dance to a frantic drumbeat, their hips a blur of motion under a narrow band of white cloth. Their long iridescent black hair is alive in a flow of action, keeping time with the turn of heads and the sweep of shoulders. 

We join in, welcomed with open hearted smiles and beckoning gestures. We are consumed in the rhythms of the ocean and the swaying of bodies. Ah, the lamps of fragrant oils are lit, and we slide softly down from our high feeling liberated from some clinging schism leftover from western civilization and life spent in the endless circle of work to live and live to work. 

The feast has begun, and it does not end until all the food is gone, and the last drops of drink finally run dry. Now we are escorted back to our hammocks strung among the coconut palms, and the dreams continue. I dream that I can no longer tell time. Clocks are no longer useful as we begin to live a life tied to the awakening of nature’s way and the people who understand the language of sea, sun, and moon. 

Near dawn, the drumbeat has stopped, and there is a quiet stillness except for the gentle rush of waves over the shore. The dancers have vanished as though they were never there, but the scent of smoke and dried leaves lingers. I see David speaking softly to a saronged woman in my periphery, tall and dark; her glossy black hair flows down her bare back to her waist. Occasionally your hand brushes hers, and she whispers soft words that carry on the fragrant breeze. I close my eyes in my hallucinogen induced state, and all goes dark as I drift away into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

The stars are more apparent than I’ve ever seen. The moon illuminates the grassy field in a hypnotic blue light. I stroll through shadows of sleeping palms returning from my compelling bathroom break. By chance, I met the songstress who captivated me with her performance. Her long hair hides her breasts in the moon shadow. The sarong hangs perilously low on her hips. I am starstruck by this goddess of Tahiti. She lifts my hand to her chest and whispers, “feel my heart that you might know how we have loved your presence among us.” She wishes me a safe journey and happiness with my woman. I am touched by her gentle kindness and thank her. She is immediately gone in the shadows as if she were never there.

I see Renate asleep in her hammock next to mine; her face glows with angelic peace under the moon. I zip your netting closed with the utmost care to avoid waking you and glance up at the luminescent seafoam riding each wave to shore. I wonder how it could be that all these years of your companionship, the many rituals of time and place in Paris, the trips to London and back, you have never turned away from these new escapes across the world. Have we lost Paris and traded it for the innocence found on isolated beaches among people known for their Joie de Vivre found in simple lives, with music, dance, and feast. 

We’ll plan our departure tomorrow and then be off again, and for a moment, I wonder if we should not stay just a little longer and let the angst and dark moments of the past slip away under cerulean skies and gentle seas. I hear you draw a quick breath as if surprised at my faltering mind. I hear you whisper in your dream of parrots in the canopy, and it’s settled. We’ll sail toward Orion on the following breeze. At this moment, my dear Renate, my Sad Café, reclaims my heart and soul, and I settle in my hammock, and the moonlight fades to black.


I hear David breathing softly in time with the incoming waves and open my eyes to the sun rising over the Pacific blue horizon casting shades of amber and melon that drip into the sea until it grows a bright yellow between heaven and the sea line. I slept soundly but still recall dreaming of the Sad Café, but I must put that behind me for now. Slipping off my sarong, I step out into the warm waters and dive into the deep. 

The pristine waters are alive with shore-fish, Angels in yellow and black, vivid parrot fish, and anemones who seem not to mind my company, and I let them surround me as I meditate briefly under the sun. Slipping back into the sarong, I watch David sleep, his face peaceful, free of the burden of life as it was and will be again, but now it is just us, and the rest of the world is shut out. 

He awakens and joins me; we pour cups of strong coffee that brews on a small fire that still glows from the previous night. We sit beneath the Coconut palms where he has arranged his hammock and talk like nothing has happened. 

We want to move on, adventure is calling us, yet we already feel nostalgia for the beautiful natives of this lush Island. Taking my hand, he leads me to our landing. “Look, our balloon is ready to go.” We gather our belongings, and before boarding, as if to imprint it on our minds, we take one last look around us, the calm blue lagoon, the white sand beach, swaying coconut trees, the black pearl paradise that is Polynesia.


We are aloft again. I watch as Renate silently goes about her preparations for the long trip with the diligence of an ancient mariner whose life is a mastery of wind and sail. You stop to read the horizon, and we both see the wisps of clouds evaporating under the power of a white-hot sun. You turn to me, and your face is a blessing of bright eyes wide with the wonder of what you see. It will be a great day for sailing, you say with a shy smile that warms me from the inside-out, and I tug on the chain that fires the burner as if to answer you with obedience to your wisdom. 

On cue, our patchwork balloon, the color of the sun on the horizon at the beginning and end of each day, lurches up like a stallion into the trade winds that will carry us to the Marquesas Islands. Beneath us, a white Heron drifts on unseen currents. We touch hands as we take in the magnificent view of the sleek bird angling across emerald waves that lumber like fantastic beasts on their way to distant shores to woo young lovers. 

Our balloon leans against the winds as we climb to 14,000 feet, where it is cold, and the air is thin. We fix our oilcloth canopy in a geometric grid of rope and knots over our wicker basket to let the sun glow through like the warm streetlights of Paris and keep the chill air at bay. Now, seated as if on a picnic, we snuggle under our blanket and make small talk in whispers even though there is no one disturbed by our laughter that occasionally escapes. 

Where to next? You ask with sleepy eyes and contentment. This week we’ll soon cross over the Marquesas Islands and in a few days the Galapágos Islands. From there, we will sail northerly to Costa Rica; your Simian friends await your visit to their paradise. We must then decide if we want to stop in Jamaica, Cuba, or the Bahamas. “Let’s stop everywhere, if only for a few hours,” you tell me with a yearning in your voice emphasized by the squeeze you give my arm. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I reply. With a tug on the lanyard that fires our balloon, our sailboat of cloth and wicker, of linen rope, our ship that obeys the wind and answers dreams, leans harder with the wind. We gallop across the South Pacific to uninhabited dots of land perched atop paleo volcanoes. Our love is wind and water, fire and sky, song and dance. Our lives have become a skipping stone that hops from shore to shore, and we know without saying that freedom is a wicker floor above an ageless, deep blue ocean.

The days pass one into the other either, gently drifting on soft breezes or hurtling through gusts of wind that David must Maneuver. He has become a skillful aviator; if not, I fear we would perish in storms, but he has learned to let the trade winds have their way with us, and it seems to know which jet stream will take us to our destination. Most of our days are soft and meandering, spent gazing in wonder at the beauty stretched out above and below us. 

Dolphin and Gray whales follow as we streak above their ocean home as captivated with the giant vivid object cruising above as we are with them. David is tan and muscular now, and I can barely imagine him in a suit and tie. His hands are calloused from physically guiding, rising and lowering, adjusting to the unpredictable wind currents, at times fighting high winds and storms that would cast us off course. 

Nights when we are resting on the floor of the basket that safely holds us, I want to press my lips to those roughened hands, but instead massage them with essential oils, and in turn, I drop my sarong and feel his hands gently rubbing any tension from my shoulders. At those moments, I felt such deep camaraderie and struck by the utter and complete trust we share. Days pass and the sea fades to mountains covered with lush green forests. 

David has lowered the balloon close enough to the treetops that we hear the chatter of simians chasing one another along the branches and parrots and macaw, bright flickers of color among the tree crowns squawking at having been disrupted. We have dropped low into the rainforest. Giant birds of prey circle with curiosity, the whoosh of wings close enough to send me from the basket’s edge to the deep gondola for safety come from every direction. 

Lowering the volume of hot air in the balloon, David sets our trusty carriage down in a clearing on the forest floor, and we settle with a thud. Charting our destination, he determines that we have reached the rainforests of Costa Rica. We hug and celebrate by opening the bottle of Polynesia pear wine, a gift from our island friends. Having tied the balloon securely to the ancient gumbo limbos that encircle us, David lifts me from the basket and swings me around joyfully, holding me briefly as I get my sea legs. 


Suddenly free of the confines of our nest, we lay the canopy that serves as our roof on the lush grass next to the gondola and bask in the warm sun. I root out some of our fruit and rations we picked up in Tahiti and cook a fine meal for our lunch. I show Renate how much my hands have healed from their roughness due to her care. “It was nothing; I’m a nurse,” she tells me while her eyes sparkle with delight. I touch her cheek to show her. She holds my hand to her face and leans closer. We draw together into a kiss that is more than a kiss; it is the opening paragraph of a classic romantic tale. “Lunch is burning,” she whispers in my ear. Drat! Something else always needs attention when my attention focuses on the velvet softness of Renate’s love. 

With help from my amused First Mate, we rescue our meal and enjoy it like two children in the schoolyard trading bites from our lunch pail. After a brief nap, we are restless. I mention the sound of rushing water. “I saw what might be a waterfall as we drifted over for the landing,” I said in mid-stretch. Renate holds her dreamy gaze. The corners of her mouth transform into her smile of mischief when she thinks of us doing something spontaneous. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” She says in her way that always leads to my greatest joys. I jump up and grab our shower kits while Renate puts her sarong and sandals on. Following the rushing sound of falling water, we push through the lush forest until it is before us, deep blue foaming falls from overhead cliffs cascading into a crystal pool surrounded by thick cords of vines and deep purple flowers. Our only sound is a quick intake of breath at the beauty before us. We are alone in this area of the forest and wonder why it is deserted.

The waterfall is a paradise carved out of the towering verdant rain forest, and we sink into the crystal pool below the falls. The water sings against ancient stone as we bathe in the water of life and love, isolated from every care. My mind empties as we sit on the warm rock and caress the sea and salt from our bodies and just live in the moment under each sensuous stroke of a loving hand and soft cotton. In this world, there is only the moment, no past or future. As though we have metamorphosed into creatures of the rainforest, wild and free.

David has dived into the deep waters and calls out to me. Stepping out of sandals and wrap, I lowered myself slowly.  Stretching full length, I make my way to him. His laughter echoes as he splashes water over my head and shoulders.  To escape his game, I swim around my arms circling, but I am no match.

Suddenly serious,  I am acutely aware of rivulets streaming down his tanned and muscular shoulders and press closer. Time stands still as we succumb to a brief, compelling kiss.  To break the spell, we push away and swim to the rocky edge. David takes my hand and pulls me from the water.

The sun is sinking low behind the tall trees. Carrying our clothing and a few supplies, we make our way back to the beach and collapse on our canopy.  There are plans and places to consider, but now there is only the existence of two bodies falling under the spell of white horses slowly sweeping ashore. 


On a narrow strip of caramel sand, we watch the waves ride in. White horses, Renate calls them. Yes, I see it; their white sea-foam mane flowing chaotically in a rush to shore. They reach for us. Occasionally the water rushes up, and we think we will wash away, but at the last instant, the wave reverses and gallops back out to sea. The sound is a clash of cymbals and a low sensual moan. We await the sunset as golden light collects low on the horizon and illuminates the white mane of the sea stallions racing toward us. 

A small group of surfers call it a day down the beach as they collect their gear and trudge up the beach’s incline and disappear into the forest on some unseen path. We are alone as a twisting splash of red sky envelopes the sun’s golden wheat straw rays falling into the distant ocean. 

Renate buries her face in my neck and throws her leg over my stomach as she pulls the canopy over our waists to divert the cooling breeze. “Do you miss Paris,” she asks. “No, I have you, and that is all the Paris I need,” I reply.  We don’t notice the nightfall nor the sudden awakening of the forest as exotic birds call their mates home to roost and the monkeys chatter in the branches, curious about the whispers like cathedrals coming from the long shadows on the beach. I am only aware of Renate’s tender touch, her soft lips, and the fresh scent of her hair spilling over my face, neck, and shoulders like silk as the warm sand cradles us under the first stars of the night.

As though under some god spun spell, we lie beneath the deep indigo sky, my lips so close to David’s, I imagine that as he sleeps, I can draw his breath in to mingle with my own.

I run the tips of my fingers along your sternum and over your chest muscle, sinew, and bone.  These feelings, I feel the flush of my skin. 

Against the moonless night, the stars form pools of pinpoint glitter. I stir you, “ David, look, the heavens are stunning.” You wake and lean on your elbows, pointing, “there’s Orion and over there, Sirius.“ I rest my head in the crook of your shoulder, and we lie face to face, my thigh sliding between yours. You call my name softly, “Renate, perhaps we should set sail in the morning.”  I nod in agreement.  You tell me of a mysterious site that you discovered while exploring the deep forest earlier; that you found it strange. I turned my back and curled tightly into you, enveloped in your arms; my protector, my North Star. Tomorrow we will go.

Sleep is a luxury under the stars. The soft lick of ripples along the shore at low tide cast a spell of dreams. There exists a strange sight in the forest, a holy place for some tribe of long ago. Renate is with me in the vision as we look upon the row of skulls perched on a moss-covered stone. We know we don’t belong here, this is not our hallowed ground, and the sockets glare and the teeth grimace an unwelcome scene. 

I awaken to the warmth of the only true love I’ve ever known, and the call of the wind and distant islands of the Caribbean beckons us to rise, to climb back to our balloon, and once again embrace the endless lapis lazuli sky. 

Wearing a sleepy haze like a warm blanket, we collect our things and avoid talking about the inevitable. We are now on the home stretch back to Paris and the end of our balloon sojourn. Pushing  rhythm that created the desire to write poetry on clay tablets and fuel every century’s romance. Where else in time does one do the things we’ve done and seen the things we’ve seen together. “We should write about this trip,” I say, breaking the silence except for the swish of grass and cloth on supple thighs.

“No one would believe us; they would call it a fantasy,” she replies. 

Renate casts an amused glance over her shoulder before turning back. She breaks out into a soft singing voice. It is a Polynesian love song she learned in Tahiti. Much like myself, this fantasy pleases her.


I’m awakened by the sound of partier’s laughter drifting through the window of my small flat above the Sad Café. From there, I see the crowded cobblestone street, snow piling up at the curbside. The clock says nine at night. I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours. The absinthe, I’ve never been able to handle it. Such odd dreams, beautiful and erotic, yet I can not remember the details. I run a bath and slowly sink into the warm waters. My wet hair has the scent of eucalyptus and Bougainvilleas, my skin the smell of salt and surf. Above all is the haunting presence of David’s cologne; his sun burnt shoulders smell of sweet sweat and rope. Before the mirror, I brush my hair and pull it back with silver plated combs. I Step into a black frock and heels. Downstairs I find my usual booth at the dark fringes of the bar, order my regular glass of red wine, and I wait. 


By Holly Rene Hunter

You have left your

fingerprints on my soul

for you, I would journey

to that place that haunts me

between midnight and dawn

where we are imperfect

in those unseen dreams

where the only sound is the

unfolding of Origami swans

a disassembling of tenderness

where I capture what

I cannot keep

The World Is Beautiful

The world is beautiful with its splendor of all shades of green and the chirping of black-robed  birds 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 of this beautiful world.

Copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski

Translation to English by Serge Gurkski

Die Welt ist schön…FÜR HOLLY RENE HUNTER)

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


I shower and dress, apply makeup as though I am going to work.  I barely recognize  my own  reflection   in the mirror but  I am wearing my favorite dress and my hair is the color of rusty nails.  I ignore your perplexed expression and questions.

Downtown I meld into the chaotic masses,  eyes that are infused with the pain of   survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fade with the crowd. Sweat  and strong coffee stings  my nostrils, clings to skin.  Alien faces  are etched behind my eyes.

The familiar  girl  is  propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Her head rests against   skeletal arms that  wrap around her knees.  Jarred by a boot she glances upward from her induced euphoria,  fumbles in the pocket of torn jeans  fishing out a handful of dollars.  Glancing around the man slips it beneath his belt and places a small bag into her weedy fingers that loosen, dropping it between her feet. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold.

Repelled by the  scent of urine, even the pigeons keep their distance and the stray dog lifts his feet. I feel those good intentions rising but they remain contained in my hermit mind. Does it count that I thought of her as she isolates to death?

Making my way back I pass  that abandoned  garden, pick a flower to playfully  slip behind your ear. I rely on distractions these days.

You kiss the back of my neck and once again describe your  beloved island and how the sun’s glare bounces off the seas surface and  life glides beneath the sparkling blue that spreads over the horizon.

From my deserted garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to rub my body against you in search of that trigger,  that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone.

Last Refrain

The earth glistens with rosettes of snow

the sun still rises in myriad hues

Nightingales seek refuge in barren trees

to mourn February’s last refrain.

Contrails light the wings of birds

that flit beneath lit sills of doors

settle softly into winters chill

shelter in a pale blue bed

Translation by Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi

Der letzte Kehrreim
Die Erde ist Pulverschnee.
Die Sonne geht auf in unzähligen Farben.
Nachtigall suchen Zuflucht in meinem Schrank,
beklagen den letzten Kehrreim des Dezembers.
Weiße Streifen blitzen hinter den Flügeln der Häher,
die durch die beleuchtete Türöffnung flitzen,
sich sanft in die Januar-Kälte setzen,
Geborgenheit finden in einem hellen Winterbett.