Gold Dust

From the train window

I can see miles of Pine trees

that seem to go on forever.

There’s a golden wolf howling

at the moon

chanting to the midnight Gods.

By morning Pine trees give way to

Palms and screeching Cicadas.

Tonight the moon reveals the belly of

the world  from which we all come.

All that I have left is a photograph.  

Tell me night-time dreamer why you

hold so many secrets in your heart.

When I look into your  eyes

all I  see is star dust.

The Riches

From the window

as quiet as  as a river I can watch

the moon shiver in the breeze

through the fronds of palm trees.

Hibiscus wave like  children

their mouths move  silently,

hands of garland reach out to

one another.

I am grateful for the sweet

drape of your eyes that like

fluttering wings of birds lift

the shawl of darkness where in

the light  prismatic butterflies

breach their  chrysalis and

vanish in the arching sky.

These are the riches

the golden sunlight passing through us.

Breathing air

When I am near you I become a  glimmering

  chimera of mirrors tempered of shell and sand

a cascading niagara plunging into deep pools of desire

where I am so afraid to fall.  

Powerless to hold back I  immerse in the irides  of your  eyes

as speechless as  tongueless    birds.

The current of tides tangles you in the succulent

mirage of my eyelashes. You and I are more than

the wispy smoke of clouds or an epoch of bones

but the breathing air of lovers rushing through veins  

as gentle or fierce as the press of your thigh on mine.

Princess Blue Holly’s Mystic Owls

Resa, you genius, what would the AGM’s do without you and the band that plays under your bed? Thank you dear one, love you to the moon and back. See you in the Magic Tree Sanctuary. xoxo

Art Gowns

Princess Blue Holly was at a stalemate battling with Etamilc. She knew Hyperion could lay a final blow, if he arrived in time!

My unease for days has troubled me, when in my study the eyes of my Black Dragon statue begin to glow. From his mouth came the pleas for help from Princess Blue Holly.

Enraged that she may be in immortal danger, I transform to the Ancient Black Dragon of the North and follow the current trails of Blue Holly’s urgent plea back to the scene where Etamilc has enslaved the Art Gown Models and My Lady.

Etamilc has chosen my element of water to battle me. Pity there is no chance of success. I dive to the depths and exhale a mighty flame that roils the water in a tornadic blast. The water turns to steam. My Lady, and the Art Gowns Models begin to rise from…

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A Different Kind of Love

There are times when I can see myself

through your eyes.

My pale face so in love

aching for the caress of a flaxen

haired boy racing through rolling fields.

Suddenly serious your adventurous eyes

sent yearning shivers through me.

I longed for your touch anytime and

kissed you opened mouth without

permission.

I adored your mock anger when you

chased me and the awkward way

you looked down at your hands.

Soon Autumn threw its shadow on

sprouting wheat, smooth and wet.

Now, I listen to the soft whisper

of your breathing through a half

closed door and know there are

different kinds of love

wild, ruthless, and unafraid.

Bourbon Street

Late afternoons I sit at the counter of a small diner sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn into night or dollar green but it seems as Gershwin said, not for me. It is dog days and I am hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love fading so soon. I dream myself into a hot soak in a fancy clawed foot bath tub sinking my dusty body into lilac scented bubbles. I imagine lying back with closed eyes as the hot water flicks at peony nipples. I am what one might call self-employed these days.
Settling for a motel shower stall I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolias with rose scented oil until it glimmers like alabaster. Slipping into a black sheath, silver seamed stockings and stiletto heels saved for the occasion, I make my way onto Bourbon Street. At the corner the sounds of a sax carries through the open door of a dimly lit bar, it drifts up the alley over the roof of a brothel falling into gentle ruin. From my booth there I stare through a prism of glass at the Dog Star and blow a kiss to the man in the moon already yawning at the deep purple sky.

Night Music

Dust of Stars

A kingdom of sand castles

feathered sea oats and

wispy clouds

we are the wild rose

etched in the sand

The scent of your cologne

Hangs on the air

a stem from a wine glass

wedged between shells.

Our hollowness is the dust of stars

you remain my mystery

your lips the taste of

tequila sunrise

Rough Waters by Gustav Klimt

Summer with Burroughs

Remember last summer ?

We were obsessed with

Burroughs.

Anything familiar,

the sound of far off thunder

close enough to subdue

the mad-paced hours.

Something  inciting,

like a strike of lightning

the odor of combustion

ready to ignite.

Everything electric

that made us come alive.

Our hearts caught between

whale song and sigh,

spontaneous thunder

with intermittent quiet,

sporadic as a summer storm.

Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”