take me with you

I  bend and stoop extending outward

reaching upward in search of space

but I am root-bound and so soft inside.

I need  someone to guide me.

A wild bird whose granite feathers span a pagan forest.

Take me with you above the soaring  sea hawk,

across the murmuring waves, your wings full of wind,

take me over and far beyond the lofty clouds.

 

Sheila Brown art “bird over the sea”

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reinvented

Summer gardens
with bobbing heads of 
flowers wave farewell
I want to be there once again
naked among  broad fronds
unashamed on wilting petals
dew drops drenching our radiant thighs
Meet me there once more
feed me sweet red  apples while
they are nothing more than fruit

 

 

 

by fire

When the sun is sinking low

the living gather at the edge of the river.

A widow weeps her mantra out and into

the watery grave.

Moon beams play upon the wake of the paper boat

and at the banks pious mourners  chant and dance,

their colors, red and gold glow in the firelight.

As the pyre disappears below the horizon

the young inhale herbs and chew kava

to make it easier to forget.

 

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Haidero

I have written Her…

A masterpiece of words, of poetry.

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My Sword and Shield....

I paint Her portrait in prose
I use equations of
vowels and consonants
to define Her…..
all my life, I have written Her….

I have written her eyes
deep dark and brown
glittering green or fathomless blue
Holding entire worlds of pain and joy
speaking for Her when Her mouth can not
dropping oceans of tears or shining bright like the
morning sun

I have written Her hair
a fiery sea of red
golden like the desert sands of Her home
black like the vast emptiness between the stars
or the color of the earth beneath my feet

Piled high upon Her head
Spilling down Her graceful neck
short and dusting Her cheeks
falling playfully in Her eyes

I have written Her skin
pale and fragile porcelain
freckles and dimpled imperfections
all dusky hues in shades of tropical climes
warm and honey flavored
with the qualities
to be the steel…

View original post 370 more words

The war cry of Enough!

The haters are out there. Twisted  soldiers of darkness, leaders of dread. . .  naïve as it seems, I never imagined there would be  deniers of dreams yelping like the rabid audience of a Springer show.

Once again the president has chosen to divide and conquer.  Rather than address the vital issues of our country and the world,  he attacks peaceful  protesters of the sports world (yes, I said sports world) via Twitter like the 71 year old petulant child that he is, a vulgar boor, calling names,  shouting “fire the Son of a Bitches” before the world. yet he rushed to defend the KKK,  neo-nazi’s,  white supremacist violent protest in Virginia while denouncing the push back  as “on the same level” as these dark elements  that until he set the bar for violence and bullying  had for the most part remained under their rocks. Meanwhile he goads a madman…placing himself at the same level.

 

 

Post script:

The president has hijacked a sacred symbol…our flag and used to it to distract from the real issues facing our country and to appeal to his base. He has spent his time twittering about the NFL players “taking a knee”,  an obvious effort to distract once again from his ongoing legal issues.  Puerto Rico is in a dire situation, millions of American citizens desperately needing help and the attention of the president following the devastation of Hurricane Maria.  Trump finally addressed that issue today on Twitter showing no compassion to speak of. Addressing the bad infrastructure in Puerto Rico and mentioning the issue that exists concerning PR and wall street.  Cold.

 

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what’s left

in my reservoir of words

is  the refuse of middens

passé cliche

 

Stubs of cigarettes

the  bitter rind of orange

gnawed and tossed away

 

Where is the simile of stars

metaphor of sea oats

translucent wings of melodramatic birds

suspended in my throat

 

Crumpled leaves beneath

lover’s feet

dried flowers grieving debridement

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posh – Poetry by Gurkski

Drab morning, no aperitifs.
Someone left a suitcase monster filled with Marihuanilla.
You are still sleeping, opened up to my peeping eye,
your auburn hair anarchistically fanned out on the pillow.
I put on Monk and  return to serious business,
rolling overweight Mexican calumets and
while I meditate on the perfect shape of your breasts
I inhale to wed my self to life again.
Three joints later all has become lovelier and
I bow down to make lips meet.  “Coffee, my sweet?”.
You bite my ear,  ” frappé!”
I smile, ” oh, Greek”.