The Letter

I left a message for you in a book.
It is like me to mark provocative phrases,
to shake them out in ponderous verses.
Do not read too much in the fallout,
the notes in the border are for nostalgia’s sake.
I dreamt of you again last night
my adversary
whose aura I barely recall.
My suffering is not in knowing what was real
but what was not.

papers.co-aw53-yanjun-cheng-girl-green-sexy-illustration-art-paint-4-wallpaper-260x460

Until the Battle is Done

Courage is a leopard her cubs in danger

rushing forward without hesitation to face the foe.

It is looking your greatest fear in the eye

leaning forward,  stepping across that

line you dare not cross,   lungs bursting

thoughts racing,  adrenaline heart pounding,

defending the defenseless in the arena of dread.

Facing the enemy, confronting the bully,

challenging the antagonist until the battle is won.

 

 

celtic women | Tumblr

Celtic Woman by Mali

 

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.

Keep me close in your heart like

the beating of a rhythmic railway

traveling snow covered alps

or the black tar of far off foothills.

 

aeca387ee9ca0283b039f8e7e039b774

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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