the hours

When words were your only nourishment

I fed you calla lilies budding in my throat,

the shimmering wings of a thousand bees

thrumming walls of verse.

From the stacked shelves of your smoky library

I read to you  Aristophanes,

of all poets we loved him best.

In the final hours

we longed for rippling  wheat fields,

anything windswept,

certain of life and death.

orchid petals


unruly lover

For you I will be
the sun who shines
without expectation,
a breeze that shapes soft
passages when you travel
Let me be your madness
that sets  desire in motion,
the moon pulling tides
drawing you closer. 
When my words fail
my body will speak for me.
Of air and flight, strung of stars,
let me be the light you
return to.


all I really want

In such a humid night I wonder if I am coherent.  Alone  in a bed  at two in the morning has teeth and when you leave I am filled with visceral loneliness.  It is always April when we meet.  I ramble about sunny meadows, the way they smell of  lavender and I talk  about a  painting that I am working on for you. I am acutely aware of the  momentum of words and the tender touch of your hand between my thighs.   My own  hands  are worn raw  in search of common ground but I haven’t the words to not betray myself.  You have gifted me  your  history.   The man in Berlin, that year you spent in Turkey.   I am frightened by implicit trust,  how can you have such faith?  Still I consume all that you  give  as though each confidence is not an infringement.  When I  look  into your impossible eyes all I really want is to  get drunk,  imprint my name upon your belly.




Pinterest Art/Photography



In the twilight hours

I feel you in the pouring rain

violent or soft as a summer breeze.

A bird in flight  you disappear into

the pixels from which  you  came.

Bruises of the soul are slow to heal

but I have become indifferent to pain

as cold as that seems.

Decaying gardenias fill my rooms with mortality,

decomposing petals saturated in dark secrets

kept  alive by the ferocity of desire.

They rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr

of your sigh upon my skin.

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

Now  I long for the clean scent of fall,

the smell of earth infused in deep roots.

Swaying wind chimes clinging to the arm of a live oak,

synchronized resonance of  soothing sounds

for the twilight hours.





ambrosia for deities

I could convince you

that the world is

ambrosia for deities

dropped on our tongues

in syrupy slices while

we linger immortal

in Aristophanes’ veil

of illusion.

My lips are the arc of

a butterfly dripping thick

and golden adventures into your

weightless body.

As light as feathered birds

we resist the pull of gravity,

succumb to ruby filaments

where the only peril is a

paradise that may consume us.



Butterfly goddess by Arkel666

arkell 166

about a girl

It was my birthday. She did not come to the table. I brought cake to her on a paper plate.  Accustomed to the dark, heavy  tapestry hung at her window.   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 had picked it out himself.  Later my grown up eyes dissolved in the pain on his etched face. A photo 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 sunk among the gravel,  worship the giant boulders that harbor her.

I am a lone chrysalis twisting in the wind, fluid bones press hard against its fragile casing.  Swollen wings beat at the tight space that holds me.  I am searching for a  moral. These unheralded breasts,  they defeat  and yet complete me too.  I know I am meant to struggle.  I can’t see or hear nor would I heed signs of warning, a pubescent  butterfly, excessively sanguine or melancholy  I flit from flower to flower,  oblivious to life’s repressive hand hovering above me.



il mondo de franco


Hearts Of Lovers


You are more rare than

a bird of paradise.

Let me leave my mark

upon your feathers

soft as eider down.

On a widespread river

amid the perfume of damp flowers

sing to me a mock sinner’s lullaby

in return I offer you pearls

and the hollow at my throat.




angel wings


Pinterest images