Winter mists the window panes
with veiny tributaries that trickle
to the sill with a warm touch.
The trajectory of time trails run off
down the mountain side an affirmation
of spring the honey-sweet deceit of
Remain here until the birds sing
our disparity, till reality overshadows
dreams and tears and dew drops blend.
Then we will part.
Art by Rae Williams at Pinterest
The vibrancy of peony
lush curls of gardenia
the brush of nurture
on birds of paradise
tempests of wildflowers
scattered across a meadow
tame the feral garden
she blooms for you
art by Ronnie Piccard
I sigh, light my cigarette and turn to you.
Within this dream I propose let us fly away.
Your eyes so dark
whip my mind into arousal and your
rugged hand on my thigh makes me
soft inside and everywhere.
You whisper that my hair so near
and my lips a crimson darkness devours you.
Against waves of joy and sadness dreams are
always what it could be like.
Suddenly hares chase foxes and Roebuck’s
hunt hunters and I bury my face in your
chest and you shield me within bleak arms
to not see the terror and we fly away.
art by Babylon Premium
“Love is a journey through waters and stars, through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness”
Carnal Apple by Pablo Neruda
Between wake and sleep I feel the brush of your hand against my cheek as cold as winters breath. I thought I glimpsed you in lightning strokes through my window, heard your steps come and go down halls still echoing departure as night slips by like molasses, the mist of yesterday receding over the lake of time.
So that you may see what is left of me I’ve etched your eyes to mine.
Dismembered by scythes of devastation we scatter like autumn leaves.
You go where gravity pulls you, disappear through shimmering veils or wind
down my cheek like teardrops settling in the hollow of my throat, conscious
fingers of stars gliding over hoarfrost fields or weeping willows sweeping an ice capped pond.
art by Brad Kunkle
In the hushed silence between waves
sighs fill the night as stars come alive
and the breeze is a soft poem.
Nude in the moon light but for drifting
shadows the swirl in your glass keeps
perfect time with far off thunder.
I need to look away from your gun powder eyes
that lethal shot
before the fluttering of a thousand butterflies
I breathe in the circlets of your cigarette and
the honey sweet scent of willing hostages.
As fragile as fireflies we escape to the madness of
our minds where all we have to do is live.
Browsing through souvenirs
I am reminded of you.
The door to the past swings open
releasing sleek eels of memories
where I am nothing or at best
a trembling leaf lost on a autumn breeze.
Do you ever think of me?
See me in constellations pressed against the sky,
hear me in the surge of the 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
Hungrily flicking the skin of your thigh
curling around the catch in my throat.
He is god and has named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers.
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy
From my swing
I spot the Monarch
sipping from a nectary,
gently I snare him
by his dew drenched wings.
I wonder if he knows
his fate lies in my hands.
Clutched between my fingers
imagine how his heart pounds.
After you left I ran along the shoreline past the jetties and scattered surfers hoping to catch the last waves. A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain. Fat globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Guttural sounds mutating to unearthly howls carried out across the waves. I waited there until they dissolved into the sea.
The sky is always blue and the ocean is frothy meringue not a murky sea where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip. Your eyes and throat sting with the rush of saltwater, screams fill your brain but not the air. Sea gulls swoop and squawk, perfect black angles against the sunlight. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.
I will indulge the unconventional.
On a mossy hill behind a mock castle
we will read Aristophanes to harems
of nymphs as they strum their Lyre for you.
While you transform words into wings
flitting the hearts of lovers I will
contemplate the perfect angle of your face,
breathe the amber resin of pine that
permeates our senses and in the unruffled
pools of your eyes I will die just a little.