I am touched
by a storm
the tongue of a
fire that burns
A tide crashing
into millions of
becoming the sun.
My heart is ripe
like summer fruit
sweet juices flushing
There is a storm circling
the pit of my stomach rising
to ache in my throat.
Steve Hanks art
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
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”
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
Most of us have experienced it.
Unrelenting obsession that defies reason.
Denying its existence we shut down
its pathway, deprive it of oxygen,
shiver in the dark only to discover
it thrives on the night beneath
translucent veils that ignite
and inflame the fire of desire.
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.
Unless you ask
I will always make you go
before the birds invoke the day,
leave our scent on the crumpled
sheets to the cats.
Though it is somewhat embarrassing
I love most among poets Aristophanes
and sultry dreams of cherubs that twitter like
juvenile birds drunk on adventure.
Unless you wake me to the soft sound of Coltrane,
the rich taste of espresso, the breath of fruity herbs,
I will always make you go before
the sun breaks the horizon.
Painting by Michael Lipke (1953)