Night LIfe

From my  window  a sliver of  moon casts a haze over the water. I can hear the  rush of soft waves. Those  creatures beneath the depths,  do they sleep,  dream?  If  parted do they grieve?  Down the street  I can see  the lights from  an all night store. A man waits behind the counter.  Cautiously he  slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a  bottle.   A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront.   I imagine them  harming the storekeeper.  Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway they laugh and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of  birds of prey that swoop down with jagged talons hungry for butchery.   I watch intently  in case I need to call out a warning  but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real. Maybe   everything I see and hear is an illusion.   I lose focus on the  outside world and the burn of you stings relentlessly just below the surface.   I want to sleep forever, not give a damn about you.

 

Islamorada

This morning  I threw wide

that carved door of souvenirs.

The scent of sandal wood

filled the air and  missing

you was a stone bruise.

Tonight  I will walk down

to the shore,  that galaxy

of pearls and tumbling  waves

of frothy champagne.

The mangroves are filled with

flickers and blooms and the

sky glimmers with silvery mirth.

I could stay here until Spring among

the  honey cake dunes and not think

of you at all.

 

google art

 

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

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.

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.

 

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

Negril

In the hushed silence between waves
sighs fill the night as stars come alive
and the breeze is a soft poem.
Nude in the moon light but for drifting
shadows the swirl in your glass keeps
perfect time with far off thunder.
I need to look away from your gun powder eyes
that lethal shot
before the fluttering of a thousand butterflies
betray me.
I breathe in the circlets of your cigarette and
the honey sweet scent of willing hostages.
As fragile as fireflies we escape to the madness of
our minds where all we have to do is live.

Liliana Gigovic

We had wings

Then, wisdom grew from fruit

and  time was a seedling.

All creatures spoke the same,

hymns of bats, the breath of horses.

We were winged and freedom

was etched on the soles of our feet.

Pathways in the earth and sky were

known not charted.

We step naked into the blazing sun

bare ourselves  to golden rivers and

awesome tidal thunder.

 

Dali and The Garden of Eden

art by José Roosevelt, a Brazilian Surrealist, illustrator/painter.

 

 

to get to you

House of Heart

In this dream  my arms

are the branches of trees

and you are my  nourishment.

Cut me down to a boat.

My  spine a sturdy keel,

my hair  the unfurled sails.

A lighthouse is my only lamp

for the stars are captive
in your hand.  

If the sea does not capitulate, 

red sails   cast into a cleft 

too wide  for me to cross,

I was trying to get to you.

 

Art from Getty

 

 

 

 

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Red Dawn

At night we entwine
interlacing tendrils weaving
bodies stretching, limbs
reaching, giving way, every ripple
replicated in the amber sand.
Nights are as sweet as dew drops
on a rose and each breath is a vow.
A silent Oracle I inscribe Arabesque
across the grain of your skin
so that when you wake
you will remember.

Blasphemy

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