Molten wax drips down the copper sconce onto the end table while you light my cigarette and  offer me a pale green aperitif    which I do not touch until you feign fascination at simple  anecdotes that I find trivial enough to share with you. Easing  into a faded blur we  lean back against brocade cushions. Now, in a somewhat dreamier state of mind you attempt to further  distract me with details of your recent dalliance with a french contemporary artist until I yawn with boredom. Suddenly, the embodiment of elegance, you  smile and arch your brow, once again hold 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 my supple lips are a  crimson darkness that consumes you.  I  lean  into your far off voice  and my subconscious begins to  vibrate for you.   Seduced by the lure of  Ravel’s Bolero  I feel so soft inside and  after a few more  sips I  hallucinate a frightened hare pursued by  relentless hunter’s  boots pounding the snowy banks  that  rise above our grotto  at the foot of the alps where we venture into hedonism.   I cry out in terror  and you press my face into your chest to spare  me the moonless massacre spilling down the mountainside into the foothills. Having been saved from what now evades us,  we  slip into a deep and somber slumber.


art by L’ Rend  Fou

Green Smoke



Sandalwood and lavender

House of Heart

When dawn became morning, with the graceful arms of a ballerina, she tossed bread crumbs to finches and towhees gathered at the feeder.  Sadly the flowers lay drenched in nights raindrops, puddled  petals in a potpourri garden.

Wiping dried wax from the  bedside table  she replaced  melting  candles that held too many memories.  Her silk   scarves were cached in a pale blue armoire but for the rose hued tossed across the night lamp.

The hours pass slowly in  a room  blushed with moon-glow,  the  faint scent of sandalwood and  a hint of  dried lavender.

Image result for art by Mark Spain

Mark Spain Art

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The Eddies

He smiled sweetly and said he was lonely,

let’s go for a ride down by the dunes.

Retracting the top of his new convertible

we sped along freeways and deserted back roads

while the radio blared Louie Louie.

I remember the sea wall where we drank straight

from the bottle until the swallow no longer burned.

The moon and the stars sunk behind his shoulder

and my stifled cries seemed to drown in the sea.

While my father slept I scrubbed my bruises

watched pools of red eddy at the drain.

You think I’m no body to use as you please

but I’m not just somebody whose all alone.
Rene Hunter @ House of Heart

Dedicated to all victims who fail to report sexual assault

Solace for Lovers

In October the pines  ooze resin.

Lofty crows flit among  rusty leaves.

Wisteria once so pleasant choke the burdened trellis,

their summer petals decomposing on a rusty gate.

From the branches of evergreens huddled lyrebirds

sing  cantilenas,  create their finest opus.

Below the smokey clouds my hands reach

to the heavens awaiting downy verses to fall

like feathers to my  ears.

I remain unwritten,  a journal of blank pages,

abandoned by a woman feigning nonchalance.

Today my eyes are a  brooding storm,

shades of a  deep night without a dawning.

In the forest a nightingale sings her  song

somehow her soft refrain makes it easier to bear.



By Fire

Strangers gather on the green
choking on smoke and the scent
of seared flesh.
The sun is climbing down
to meet the flames,
As her ashes smolder
 he dampens her gown.
Just  before the winds whip up
she is in Elysian Fields.


with nothing to remember

House of Heart

At days end with the sun casting

a crimson glow across the horizon

I thought of you.

The ocean is thick with salt and the

sand is etched with patterns of an

ambivalent tide.

I am pared down to dark and light.

I open  our souvenir of closed doors

with swords and sighs

to coax alive the brightest stars

so you  may find me in wind furled sails.

The  sea is  a moon struck epiphany and

With the slightest chance of finding you

I cast my dreams to an incoming storm as

Though I am the rain with nothing to

remember or forget.

Keine Erinnerung

An Tagen, die enden, indem die Sonne den Horizont
mit einem karmesinroten Leuchten überschüttet,
habe an dich gedacht.
Das Meer ist gesättigt von Salz und der
Sand ist übersäht von gebrochenen
Ich bin nur noch Dunkelheit und Licht.
Ich öffne unser Andenken, geschlossene Türen,
mit Schwertern…

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With Mr. Cake’s permission.

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Claude Cahun Claude Cahun

Do I need to spell it out for you?
These words of mine are meant
As a spell neither more or less,
A charm to persuade your sweet self
To surrender in absentia and toto,
Give me the power and I promise,
In fact, swear on all that is unholy
To abuse the privilege you
Have so graciously granted, heedlessly,
Recklessly rushing through all
Of love’s myriad delights and mystery,
Imputing a whole lexicon of desire
In the sections of your shadow
Outlined against the bedroom wall,
In the jutting angles of your legs
For I seek the centre, a still point
Where all yearnings will cease
And desist from transmitting
This urgent ungovernable need
To translate the will divine,
This damnable demonic occultistry
That devours yet is never sated.

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while I was thinking of you

Sometimes I feel my words are

a blazing flame melting the chalice

of your gold heart.

There is comfort in the quiet when

we cross the continents.

We feel but never touch and let the moon

devour us,  set the night afire,  too holy for the light.

In your presence I am profanity in the sacred sky,

a blasphemy of flaws too small to alter fate.

While I was  thinking of you a fledgling

fell to earth,  saved by the wind  on her

passage to life.


red head on a bench

google art

soft as pollen

Insects large and small flit

through the  lemony filter of dense canopies.

In hushed whispers we point to a clearing

where a roe fawn nibbles at pine needles.

Soft as  cotton clouds brush the crowns of ancient trees,

below a  hanging mist  clings to  blonde foothills.

You pluck a  marigold to tuck behind my ear,

a golden hand print left on my thigh.

I wind a garland of fern  around your wrist,

close enough to run my fingers through your hair,

carry your scent back home with me.



Deborah Gryka  “Turtle Woods”


I apologize ! I found that the comment section was turned off on this.  I have gremlins.


Praise for Pantheon by Eric Syrdal

This stunning book by Eric is due out this Fall.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

“Pantheon” is a thrilling philosophical journey exploring the depth and meaning for one passing through a metaphorical world of inner demons and dragons, goddesses of the soul, of warrior and poet. A journey that crosses boundaries of time, space, and perception.  I am captured by the intimate revelations of this intuitive and sympathetic protagonist battling the dark ages of his subconscious moving instinctively forward into innerscape, relying upon and exalting the virtue goddesses that guide and deliver him from barbarity and trial by ordeal both physical and spiritually as he transports from one state of being to another, from one point of time to another”

Holly Rene Hunter
House of Heart

“The poetry is densely colourful, rich in imagery and sensuality, boldly imaginative and deeply sensitive to the human condition, while being written with clarity and emotional pull. I found myself sitting for three hours, empty coffee cups scattered around me…

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