Storms

I am touched
by a storm
the tongue of a
fire that burns
away sleep.
A tide crashing
into millions of
crystal droplets
becoming the sun.
My heart is ripe
like summer fruit
sweet juices flushing
tingling veins.
There is a storm circling
the pit of my stomach rising
to ache in my throat.

Steve Hanks art

The Gold

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

 

 

soft as cotton

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”

 

 

 

a longing

I steer my boat

beneath the lacy moss of

cedar trees where a  lark  drapes

her song,  a spray of flowers, along

the whispering stream.

Beyond the shallows a wooden bridge

where we cast our secrets to the water,

goldenrod along the bank witness the

 breathless embrace of  lovers.

So blue were your eyes those summer days,

 how endlessly deep the longing.

art by Steve Hanks

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

in my favorite dream

I walk beside you on snow swept sidewalks shivering from too much life.  Your fingers wrap around mine as my hand clings to your shoulder shielding me from the chaos of rushing traffic.  Snuggled against you I am captivated by your impossibly sexy voice discussing note worthy events that fill your day.   Surreptitiously my mind slips away to desirous play where you sip honey from my swollen lips releasing urgent butterflies from my rib cage. At our favorite café you order tea,  for me,  hot cocoa brimming with frothy cream that  your eager lips flick from mine.  In this realm all cares  cease to exist past  the prism of our window where  in the soft glow  snow flakes dissolve into a light drizzle and we softly fade into  a parallel world of lovers.

 

 

 

 

Animal

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.

 

 

  Pinterest

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.

 

 

 

 

 

reinvented

 gardens

of  bobbing blossoms

wave beneath a pale blue sky,

I want to be there once again

naked among broad   fronds

unashamed among bird of paradise,

clinging dew drops on sun drenched thighs.

Meet me there once  again before  Summer

bids farewell.  Feed me sweet red apples while

they are nothing more than fruit

unless you ask

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)