the lethal dose

There are days  shadows course
through me like a breeze,
pressing deep into my life line and
the air is the scent of a stale satin pillow
where I refuse to lay my head.
I don’t fear  those intrepid ghosts,
I embrace and release them with
failed  gravity or the force that once
held the cupped hand of my lover.
The sky was alive then with every shade of
blue and the clarity of Windsor eyes
where I longed for space.
Desire is a stranger,  a lethal dose,
 encountered beneath a sacred mound.
art by Laura Makabresku
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Wolves

In that state between sleep and wake

traversing birth and mortality

there is the faintest hint of earthy candles,

macabre dreams interrupted by sighs

the soft strophe of sonnets and the odd

sensation of strung pearls  falling like

tiny moons through my open palm.

At the boundaries I find you

not your spirit or  rose tinged snow,

but flesh and bone and sinew.

Now  I am sleeping less

roused by the wing beats of boreal Owls

circling   ancient Cypress,

their knife edge talons entwining knotty branches.

When sleep intrudes fitful winds  erupt

feathery curtains, vibrate my hemispheres.

A  swift breeze lifts  me over  the

valley to a  moonlit hillside of sweet lea

where a silver wolf lies down  beside me.

He is the scent of golden meadows and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.

 

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Estuary

I want to fly but fall like

a silent prayer.

My limbs are an anchor

as I slip beneath the surface.

Opened mouthed my lungs expand,

my once struggling palms lie flat

as gentle waves of the river rock me.

Strands of weed mingle with my breath,

my only thing of value.

Everything beautiful is here,

all that was lost.

Birds chorus to the ancient stones.

A thousand warriors rest in an

estuary of flowers,

I can hear their mournful lament.

celtic woman by woad

Celtic Woman…art by Woad

inanimate muses

With anonymous faces

you watch over my cradle,

your voice as soft as the aurora,

hair the color of a Ditch Lily

brushes against my cheek

and when I look up

my own face echoes back

at me.

My first rainbows are soaked

in your tears,

I am busy with life Mother,

its been so many years.

I am  filled with light,

is that so wrong?

 

 

google art

 

 

 

the edge of seasons

Even in death we live on

until the last breath can

no longer recall us.

Rooted in the cold ground,

ethereal,  is there a soul

beneath that cold marble?

Has time returned to the origin

before there was light?

Perpetually I come here,

through the edge of every season

beneath the purple sky

I breathe the eternity of you.

Do you ever scream  out unroll the earth,

dislodge these stones?

Do you ever feel my unfathomable

grief in your mouth.

 

Carousel

Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs,  roil  over  ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of  Mountains.  I hear the voices of ancestors,  perverse whispers of hate and grudges,   they are witness to our deception. They  know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same  darkness as theirs.  When we once again come face to face  they will  tell us how the hours passed so quickly.  You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest  a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown.  Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings.   Save me from this carousel,  my arms outstretched not knowing I am still  spinning.

 

In This Dream

Between sleep and wake we

fall like stones into a silent lake

traversing birth and mortality.

Water pearls drop from  unfastened palms

tiny moons slipping through fingers.

Deeper I find you in the  iris of cat eyes,

not your spirit or rose tinged snow but

flesh and bone and sinew whose sigh is

an ancient strophe where we do not die

but flourish with the  sprouting seeds.

 

 

 

 

 

the hours

When words were your only nourishment

I fed you calla lilies budding in my throat,

the shimmering wings of a thousand bees

thrumming walls of verse.

From the stacked shelves of your smoky library

I read to you  Aristophanes,

of all poets we loved him best.

In the final hours

we longed for rippling  wheat fields,

anything windswept,

certain of life and death.

orchid petals

 

In the twilight hours

I feel you in the pouring rain

violent or soft as a summer breeze.

A bird in flight  you disappear into

the pixels from which  you  came.

Bruises of the soul are slow to heal

but I have become indifferent to pain

as cold as that seems.

Decaying gardenias fill my rooms with mortality,

decomposing petals saturated in dark secrets

kept  alive by the ferocity of desire.

They rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr

of your sigh upon my skin.

We are a wasteland,  all  poetic breath died with us.

Now  I long for the clean scent of fall,

the smell of earth infused in deep roots.

Swaying wind chimes clinging to the arm of a live oak,

synchronized resonance of  soothing sounds

for the twilight hours.

 

 

 

 

about a girl

On my birthday she did not come to the table.  Accustomed to the dark heavy  tapestry hung at her windows.   I didn’t sit with her anymore,  her suffering frightened me.  That day I wore a new dress, I adored it’s lacy bodice and satin sash. He had picked it out himself.  Now my grown up eyes dissolve in the pain on his etched face in a  photo with an empty space,  dying in a dark room.   When I begged you to get well, did it hurt you too?

That woman who spit me red faced into the world,   fed and failed me, flung me from the hem of her skirt into the fractured world stares back at me from my mirror.    I wear her hands like gloves and honor the rolling river where her ashes sank among the gravel and  worship the  boulders that harbor her.

 

A lone chrysalis twisting in the wind,  my fluid bones pressed hard against its casing. casing.  Swollen wings beat at the  space that held me.   I am searching for a moral, justification for internal  contradictions and absurdities.    These unheralded breasts,  they defeat  and yet complete me too.  I know I am meant to struggle.  I can’t see or hear nor would I heed signs of warning, a pubescent  butterfly, excessively sanguine or melancholy  I flit from flower to flower,  oblivious to life’s repressive hand hovering above me.

 

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il mondo de franco