A Winged Bird

I am who I have always been
a shiver of soft reeds beside the river
or the cascade of  waterfall.
Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn sky
gathering their kind they circle
back for me.

 

I can scarcely  bear the

splendor of the world,

it’s wonder humbles

the wisp  of me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue

astounded by the promise

of a  red sunrise.

Elegant trees  lift up

their mighty arms,

grand  gods in prayer,

host to creatures

large and small,

a cornucopia of life

fills their noble crowns.

 

I want to sail across the sea,
this tiny fleck that is me,
a winged bird   bearer of
no possession,
fragment of the universe.

 

 

fine art America

 

Translation by  Bernd Hutschenreuther

Ein geflügelter Vogel sein

Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz
der Welt zu enthüllen,
ihre Wunder schmälern
noch meine Winzigkeit.
Details von Augen und Ohren
und Zunge, stumm,
erstaunt vom Versprechen
eines Sonnenaufgangs.
Vornehme Bäume erheben
ihre erhabenen Arme,
mächtige Götter im Gebet,
Gastgeber unzähliger Geschöpfe,
abgezupft in rot und grün,
Füllhörner mit Nüssen und Beeren
zieren ihre edlen Kronen.
Ich möchte das Meer durchsegeln,
winziger Fleck, der ich bin,
ein geflügelter Vogel, Träger
keines Besitzes, ein erfreuliches
Fragment des Alls,
einem jeden sichtbar.

Deutsch: Bernd Hutschenreuther

 

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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

The Garden

I will channel stardust

of incandescent colors that sparkle

angel mist upon our English garden.

I wait for you there

an exotic flower enfolded among  Roses,

Blue Bells, and Columbines.

The wind sings  it’s  hymn for departed

flowers plucked up  by winters foraging birds.

In our Renaissance garden we will

flourish forever.

Your stained glass wings, the sweeping

breadth of Monarchs, flutter fervently among the

velvet petals.

The weeping falls of willows bow down.

 

Flickr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Golden

Drawn to the pull of possibility

I am at war with resistance,

desperate allure of words becoming flesh,

the tender momentum of hands

on taut shoulders gently pressing

tangled boughs of willowy knots

under a black spell night

powerless to undo.

Your eyes are kindle for my own

igniting the perfect fire.

In the calm of dawn I am a periwinkle

at your pillow,  pale petals of desire

bending to what is golden.

 

 

innocensedawn at 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.

 

 

 

 

 

Out of Body

Once a kingdom for roaches, we’ve cleaned this small  apartment, sprayed  citrus , lit candles,  smelling of sandalwood it is  unrecognizable from its original state.  The bed  is  centered, tossed with Egyptian linens and brocade throw pillows, our only possessions.    Your whiskey glass is always half empty,  the color of your eyes when you are aroused. You sip it slowly at the edge of the bed.  Facing  away   I shut my eyes and concentrate on the whir of the overhead fan. When you reach for me  I shrug you  off.  I’ve been practicing the art of out of body  and from above I look down on  us until my eyes close  in sleep.  When I wake you offer me drags from your hand rolled  cigarette,  we lie silently  watching  the curl of our smoke rise and rip apart in the fan blades.    You want to talk,  to tell me this is  not enough,  your pleading eyes attack me at my most vulnerable.   It is so easy to distract you,  I pull the sheets away and we make love,  whisper profanities to each other,  laugh like children and pull away.   Your eyes  sparkle like stardust,   a boy at the top of a Ferris wheel.    I promise myself to never meet again  but my heart is a red sports car racing along the razor edge of a cliff.

art by Fabian Perez

 

reinvented

Summer gardens
with bobbing heads of 
flowers wave farewell
I want to be there once again
naked among  broad fronds
unashamed on wilting petals
dew drops drenching our radiant thighs
Meet me there once more
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)