All I Really Want

In this heat I wonder if I am coherent. Without  you I feel a visceral  loneliness.   When we are together  I make small talk about  the weather and how the dog still barks when the summer  heat forces me to fling open the shutters  filling the room with night blooming jasmine or how  I am still  waiting  for the oil to dry on the painting that  I promised you. I am acutely aware of the momentum of  words and the intense desire for the feel of your hand  on my inner thigh. My own hands are  worn raw in search of common ground.   How can you trust me with your past, the woman in Berlin, that year in Turkey?  I am so afraid of implicit truth still I take all you give as though each confidence is not an invasion.
To be honest all I really want is to get drunk on your  impossible eyes and  draw maps across your belly.

 

Night Music

 

 

 

The Gold

Nights while you sleep

 my lips are so close I can

draw your breath in like an

infant at its mother’s breast.

I  run my fingers down the curve

of your spine lean in to breathe

your smokey scent.

I have entered that golden part of you

immersed the sea that claimed me in

oceans of fiery sunsets.

When our hearts grow mute we will know

we have drifted too near the sun

 

art by Karol Bak

 

 

Georges Braque

““There is only one valuable thing in art: the thing you cannot explain.”

Marina Kanavaki

French painter, collagist, draughtsman, printmaker and sculptor

Georges Braque

was born,

May 13, 1882,

in Argenteuil, Val-d’Oise.


A major 20th-century French painter. Braque’s early works were impressionistic, but transitioned into a fauvist styleand -after meeting and working with Picasso [1909]- founded and developed Cubism, contributing to the history of art [big time!].

So here’s a glimpse of his work

The Large Trees L’Estaque

“Art is made to disturb, science reassures.”

Helios V

“Truth exists; only lies are invented.”

Glass and Plate of Apples

“Once an object has been incorporated in a picture it accepts a new destiny.”

Guitar and Jug

“Painting is a nail to which I fasten my ideas. ”

Glass on a Table

“Reality only reveals itself when it is illuminated by a ray of poetry. ”

Baigneuse (Le Grand Nu, Large Nude)

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soft as cotton

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.

Clouds  soft as cotton brush the crowns of ancient trees

below  a  hanging mist clings to  blonde foothills.

You pluck a  marigold to tuck behind my ear

your  golden hand print left on my thigh.

I wind a garland of leaves around your wrist

close enough to run my fingers through your hair

carry your scent back home with me.

 

 

Deborah Gryka  “Turtle Woods”

 

 

 

Waiting To Inhale

Confined in that  labyrinth

translucent limbs wore her down

She  dreamed of honey and coconut milk

transparent lids  and fingertips

sucked into fragile rose-bud lips.

Captive in that barrier

imprisoned in shifting walls

falling through  nautical twilight

hope cast its shadow on us.

Happy Mother’s Day

 

nature summer plant spring
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Rotorelle sings

Visit the original to read this in full, so beautiful!

 

Woodsy the Performance Poet

Always a little wonky and a little wild and a little frayed, mainly because she was never entirely sure how to draw herself (even with the entire sky as her paintbox), 

Rotorelle swooped her way through strange and turbulent times…

and when people saw her, blazing a trail over angry protest marches, they raised their guns and their flags and their attitude mottos in her honour, expecting her to be a real badass.

But her song of choice, for all the vibrant colours of its melody, was a deeply gentle one.

It was the one song she could never ignore… the one song she could never switch off… the one song that caught in her breath and died in the sunset…

as vulnerable as the light from distant floating stars…

~~~~~~~

Such a tender face I saw,
dancing with all the things I’m not.

Such a tender face I saw,

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Stasis

I shower and dress, apply makeup as though I am going to work.  I barely recognize  my own  reflection   in the mirror but  I am wearing my favorite dress and my hair is the color of rusty nails.  I ignore your perplexed expression and questions.

Downtown I meld into the chaotic masses,  eyes that are infused with the pain of   survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fade with the crowd. Sweat  and strong coffee stings  my nostrils, clings to skin.  Alien faces  are etched behind my eyes.

The familiar  girl  is  propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Her head rests against   skeletal arms that  wrap around her knees.  Jarred by a boot she glances upward from her induced euphoria,  fumbles in the pocket of torn jeans  fishing out a handful of dollars.  Glancing around the man slips it beneath his belt and places a small bag into her weedy fingers that loosen, dropping it between her feet. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold.

Repelled by the  scent of urine, even the pigeons keep their distance and the stray dog lifts his feet. I feel those good intentions rising but they remain contained in my hermit mind. Does it count that I thought of her as she isolates to death?

Making my way back I pass  that abandoned  garden, pick a flower to playfully  slip behind your ear. I rely on distractions these days.

You kiss the back of my neck and once again describe your  beloved island and how the sun’s glare bounces off the seas surface and  life glides beneath the sparkling blue that spreads over the horizon.

From my deserted garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to rub my body against you in search of that trigger,  that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone.

Blue Heron

There is a bird whose wings are the shades of a rainbow.

When he grieves his sighs pervade the caves of forgotten dreams.

His  sound is the laughter of children  flowing like

rippling  rivers to   soothe the hearts of angels.

His tongue drips with the honey of desert flowers and

his eyes are  an ocean of shimmering shores.

When he is thirsty he  sips  viscous dew from my feathers

painted in his colors.

When adventure calls  we lift our wings and fly away.

 

 

Blue Heron Sunset

 

Holly’s Upside Down Garden

🎵Upside Down you turn me 🎵. Remember those day in the upside down garden ….❤️ We  came up with our  best conspiracies there!  Thank you dear Resa. 💕

Graffiti Lux Art & More


A canvas of flowers in Holly’s

Upside down garden.

I love hanging round realities of prose

No right, no nor wrong

Just a song

Metaphors & entendres.

Like roses in bloom & sea birds in hand

She hangs her fruits from stray branches

In Holly’s upside down garden.

🌹☘️💐🌼🌸☘️🌹

Pics taken by Resa – February 18, 2020

Toronto, Canada

The Artists:

Written for Holly – HoH

This is a very old mural, painted on stucco, chipped & weathered. Still, when I saw it, I loved it and I thought “OMG that’s young Holly”

PS. She did hang upside down from the monkey bars. So did I. The rest is secret!

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Blasphemy

Browsing  my  journals

I am reminded of the past.

The door  swings open

releasing sleek eels of memories

where I am nothing or at best

a trembling leaf  caught in a spring  breeze.

Do you ever think of me

find  me in constellations pressed against the sky

or hear me in the sigh of  an incoming tide?

I would seek comfort in the moon but I am

so trivial and he is taken by the stars.

In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake that

flicks  hungrily along  the length of your thigh

curling around the catch in my throat.

You are god and have  named me regret.

I close our door with pried fingers.

I’ve given up on prayer hands.

 

Dove Mouth

 

 

Art by Rita Hardy