inanimate muses

With anonymous faces

you watch over my cradle,

your voice as soft as the aurora,

hair the color of a Ditch Lily

brushes against my cheek

and when I look up

my own face echoes back

at me.

My first rainbows are soaked

in your tears,

I am busy with life Mother,

its been so many years.

I am  filled with light,

is that so wrong?

 

 

google art

 

 

 

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Cottage by the Sea

On These waning spring days

I am a lone bird wheeling  jagged edges

of  ancient cliffs  above  icy  cold waves

of a rough Dover sea.

 

My feathers gleam in the beam of

the lighthouse where gentle swells

pulse against fragile bones that in

blue dreams you hold tenderly

in your palm like a rare shell.

 

We have abandoned the lover’s cottage

that seems to lean closer to the sea

waiting in vain at the tide swept shore.

The  moon and lantern have ceased

their search.

Still each time I pass by  I tip my wing.

 

 

 

Art by R. Simon

 

 

 

a winged bird

 

This is who I have always been

a shiver of soft reeds  at the riverside

or the cascade of a waterfall.

Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn sky

gathering their kind they circle

back for me.

 

 

I can scarcely  bear the

splendor of the world,

its’  wonder humbles

the wisp  of me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue

astounded by the promise

of a  red sunrise.

Elegant trees  lift

their mighty arms

grand  gods in prayer,

host to creatures

red and green,  grey and brown

cornucopias of berries fill

their noble crowns.

 

 

I want to sail  above the sea,

this tiny fleck that is me,

a winged bird   bearer of

no possession

fragment of the universe

 

 

fine art America

 

Translation by  Bernd Hutschenreuther

Ein geflügelter Vogel sein

Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz
der Welt zu enthüllen,
ihre Wunder schmälern
noch meine Winzigkeit.
Details von Augen und Ohren
und Zunge, stumm,
erstaunt vom Versprechen
eines Sonnenaufgangs.
Vornehme Bäume erheben
ihre erhabenen Arme,
mächtige Götter im Gebet,
Gastgeber unzähliger Geschöpfe,
abgezupft in rot und grün,
Füllhörner mit Nüssen und Beeren
zieren ihre edlen Kronen.
Ich möchte das Meer durchsegeln,
winziger Fleck, der ich bin,
ein geflügelter Vogel, Träger
keines Besitzes, ein erfreuliches
Fragment des Alls,
einem jeden sichtbar.

Deutsch: Bernd Hutschenreuther

 

 

I Do Not Say

something beautiful.

John Biscello

I do not say I love you,
but I notice how your fingers
twine and wrap around empty,
tracing broken circles in the air
when you are nervous.
I do not say I love you,
but there is a spot on the nape of your neck,
which radiates blush with the slightest tease
or provocation, and I do not tell you
how I belong to it,
its small history, and wisps of symmetry
soldering pink to gasp.
I do not say I love you,
Silence, you see, my longstanding master,
having taught me the gauzy reckon
of slow holy burn,
and ice floes, papered with daisies,
adrift in motherless golden haze,
perpetrating nature as silent cinema
with lines and actors to spare.
I do not say I love you,
but I know all of your hiding places,
and have left bread-crumbs there to commemorate
your movements between revelation and secrecy.

View original post 128 more words

Absinthe

Candle wax drips down the sconce onto the bedside table while you light my cigarette and pour my drink which I do not touch until you feign fascination at simple anecdotes that I find trivial enough to share with you.  You smile and move closer holding the spoon  gently to my lips and in your impossibly delectable rhythm whisper that my hair and fair skin ,  so near , whips your mind into arousal and that my swollen lips are a crimson darkness that devours you.  Soon my subconscious begins to tenderly vibrate for you.   Seduced by the lure of  Bolero  I feel so soft inside and  after a few more  sips I  hallucinate a frightened fox  pursued by  relentless boots of hunters pounding the snowy banks  that  rise above our grotto at the foot of the alps where we venture hedonism.   I cry out  and you press my face into your chest to spare  me the moonless massacre spilling down the mountainside into the foothills.   I console  myself, knowing  that like all dreams this one will end.  It is only a matter of when.

 

art by L’ Rend  Fou

Green Smoke

 

 

 

 

Frida

In the portrait

she wears a coral

shawl across her

shoulders.

Terracotta lips

are set in granite.

Her eyes are the

color of the earth,

they  scream the

anguish of the world.

Her image is etched

into  ragged  tapestry

hung from nails

on a farmhouse wall.

She is captured by the

hand of a woman uprising.

She is proud,

she is Mexico.

 

self portrait by Frida Kahlo

 

In honor of our beautiful neighbors to the South…Mexico

Hungry Birds

The  whorl of Springtime

lifts  the hem of  her skirt

unfurling  sunsets

of ochre 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

summers red meat.

 

Painting by Xevi Vilaro

to get to you

In this dream  my arms
are branches of trees
and you are my  nourishment.
Cut me down to a boat.
This  spine is a sturdy keel,
my hair the unfurled sails,
A lighthouse is my only lamp
for the stars have fallen into 
your hands.
If the sea does not capitulate,
my red sails are  cast into a cleft
too wide   to cross,
I was trying to get to you.