Send Me A Sign

Can you send me a sign?

 

As Pristine  as the south seas

An angel without wings

I sent you a message

did  it  drift out to sea

I’ m watching  I’m waiting 

On the other side 

All that I’m asking  is

send me a sign

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Intentions

I  wonder about your kiss.

Is it the taste of sweet oranges?

Now Spring  hovers at my lips and my

hair is filled with flowers.

For you  a crown of fern and twigs

plucked between stones of a river.

Wrapped in the arms of a gentle breeze

I fear we will never kiss

still my memory loves you.

 

A Little Night Music…

 

 

 

 

 

*Sophie Zelman: Memory Loves You

Singing To Birds

Leaning into summer

free falling adventure

anarchistic hummingbirds

hover in mid-air.

Tiny ballerinas too

light to bear their shadow

vibrate the air like the

laughter of children.

I open my heart like

raining down clouds to

sweet intoxication,

the promise of spring.

Bellavista

art: Dawn Chorus by Bellavista

an unraveling

When I miss you

I  become so small

My body  could fit into the  heart of a

sea bird begging  salt with its pulpy

tongue.

The scent of sandalwood remains in a

discarded shirt tossed over a bed post

where  I return and return.

The clouds unravel and tears rain

down in  shades of eventide.

Hold   me close in your heart like

the beat of a rhythmic railway

traveling  snow   covered alps or  the

black tar of far off foothills.

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Later In the Dark

At the wharf I lean back against the damp stone wall, sip my drink and yield to the slippery salamander of sea. The moon is a glistening slice of melon, her whisper carries on the wind “moon child I love you too”. Sinking deeper in to my subconscious I watch a velvet sea bird swoop my reflection from silver waves where the sighs of lovers are lost in a monsoon. Old images flicker across my frontal lobe as I liberate sip by sip. That man with the golden veins doesn’t interest me anymore. Later when my pearl skinned body breaks the surface I’ll bring him back again.

art by Steve Hanks

God Spun

I am a constellation
pasted to a smear of deep sky or
some god spun leaf drifting
a wintry blue pond.
My tongue turns silvery around
my words, do not take them
for sorrow I have named them
peace.
Do not forget me.
I still need you to carry me
over the pierce of thorns
My hands are good for nothing but
a plea do not forget me
I am still here my hair a tangle
of stars.

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Cave People

In my nest of stones I have not slept. Upstairs the neighbors fight over how best to spend their time as it silently slips through the space between fingers.   As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be present for those hours remaining.  The windows are dark in the townhouse across the way   but for a lamp shrouded in a rose colored scarf.  Stirred by the sound of an ocean breeze I imagine I am a pale warrior charged with the safety of sleeping birds as a cat passes by  casually eyeing them from a wire fence.  At last when  dawn  climbs above the ocean I can see deep amber on the shore,  the color of my lover’s eyes when aroused.  Those subtle  hues of gold  that glint and sparkle in my half empty glass.  I spend my  night rearranging decaying books,  drifting down smoke filled halls,  pillaging my mind.

 

 

Night LIfe

From my  window  a sliver of  moon casts a haze over the water. I can hear the  rush of soft waves. Those  creatures beneath the depths,  do they sleep,  dream?  If  parted do they grieve?  Down the street  I can see  the lights from  an all night store. A man waits behind the counter.  Cautiously he  slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a  bottle.   A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront.   I imagine them  harming the storekeeper.  Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway they laugh and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of  birds of prey that swoop down with jagged talons hungry for butchery.   I watch intently  in case I need to call out a warning  but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real. Maybe   everything I see and hear is an illusion.   I lose focus on the  outside world and the burn of you stings relentlessly just below the surface.   I want to sleep forever, not give a damn about you.

 

The Deceit of White Oleander

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
white Oleander.
Remain here until the birds sing
our disparity, till reality overshadows
dreams and tears and dew drops blend.
Then we will part.

 

 

Image result for Painting of a beautiful woman with a pink Oleander

Art by Rae Williams at Pinterest