It is too soon
to prune but wilted petals
wave provocatively from a
among the bent stems the sun is pleasing to bare shoulders.
Pulpy worms are sweet to scavenging tongues of hungry birds
plucked without warning from spidery veins of leaves
Elongated roots relentlessly war with nicked and bleeding fingers
I know it it is too early but chaotic gardens long for control
Summer scatters her shades
in daring colors of red and green
asymmetrical patterns splayed
over fledgling birds taking wing
above silent fields and late blooms
of lilac the deep blush of peony
clinging to a bowing trellis.
A flicker of burnished feathers
dripping with dew flitting above
rolling wheat fields.
Bowed stalks laden with crusty leaves
tender stems beaten to the soil
in need of assurance
the promise of rebirth.
The whorl of Summer
lifts the hem of her skirt
of ocher and cerise.
She festoons the earth
with unfastening coils,
tight throated corollas
of raw bursting blisters.
Warring birds swoop up
new born buds,
unwilling to wait for
winter’s red meat.
Painting by Xevi Vilaro
Without end or beginning,
I wait for you.
Near night I hunger for darkness.
Shadows of lilting swans
we plunge from cliffs of vertigo
into the gold dust of desire.
You are the hoarfrost of winter,
brilliant bursts of Autumn’s fire,
solitary eagle above the mountains.
Beneath your wings streams
of infinity carry you to my shore.
Should you fly on to distant provinces
I will follow,
become indigenous to that land.
Birds of South Asia
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
I didn’t sit with her anymore, her suffering frightened me. Today I wore a new dress, I adored it’s lacy bodice and satin sash. He picked it out himself. Now my grown up eyes dissolve at his etched face in the photograph with an empty space dying in a dark room.
That woman who spit me red faced into the world, fed and failed me, flung me from the hem of her skirt into the fractured world, stares back at me from my mirror. I wear her hands like gloves and honor the rolling river where her ashes sank among the gravel and worship the boulders that harbor her.
A lone chrysalis twisting in the wind, my fluid bones press hard against the casing. Swollen wings beat at the space that holds me. I know that I am meant to struggle. These unheralded breasts, they defeat and yet complete me . I can’t see or hear nor would I heed signs of warning. A pubescent butterfly, excessively sanguine or melancholy flitting from flower to flower, oblivious to life’s repressive hand hovering above me.
il Mondo de Franco
In the sweet summer
below the rusty fasteners of
an old swing I pump the air
with the spindly legs of childhood,
dream my wide eyed dreams of whirling
pathways to the beckoning sun.
My heart leaps at the sight of a brilliant
rainbow and with small fingers I reach up
to swathe its colors over a blue palette sky.
Now I know about life, the real truth of it.
Now I know the swing is just freedom.
Near the wharf I sit on the damp wall and sip my drink, let my mind slide into a slippery salamander of sea. The moon is a glistening slice of neon, her whisper carries on the wind, “moon child I love you too”. Sinking further in I watch a velvet Osprey swoop my reflection from the silver waves where the sighs of lovers are lost in a monsoon. Old images flicker across my frontal lobe as I liberate sip by sip. That man with the golden veins doesn’t interest me anymore. Maybe later when my pearl skinned body breaks the surface I’ll bring him back again.
Photo by Westergren