Song of Seasons

Hold me in  fleeting hours

while we are beautiful and wild

winged creatures drinking from the

night  as honeysuckle

is sustained by the  sun and rain.

Stay  when summer departs and the

garden sips at tears pooled in

the irides of  our eyes.

Lie down with me in winter when the

birds hold their song

tiny skeletons of  hollow bone

indifferent to the cold.

For you my lips are   petals

reminders  of lost flowers.

If  you do not return

but fly on  to distant gardens

my body will seek shelter

beneath the feathers of tongueless birds.

House of Heart

Song of seasons

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

 

 

 

 

View original post

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

The Sad Cafe

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.

a little haiku

House of Heart

below green water 

beneath  lotus blossoms

kissing gourami

 

along the riverbank

covered  in moss

old stone soldiers

needing to wring

they remain motionless

delicate as doves

summer  chameleons

among the  autumn leaves

changing seasons

View original post

the twilight hours

I feel you in the pouring rain

violent or soft as a breeze.

A distant star you fade into

the night from which you came.

Wounded hearts are slow to heal

but I have become indifferent to pain.

Sweet gardenias fill my rooms with mortality

decaying petals soaked in secrets

rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr of your sigh.

We are a wasteland, all poetic breath died with us.

I long for the scent of earth infused with deep roots,

the soothing sounds of swaying wind chimes clinging

to the limb of a live oak,

soothing sounds for the twilight hours.

wheat fields rolling

give me your story
minute as a wish on a star
Did you run through blowing
wheat fields your yellow hair flying
those secrets of the heart
give them to me

I am swallowed up longing
When you fall I form a scar

read to me  of  love and life

those petals closing in the dark

stay lest I fade away.