I Still Feel You

I feel you

at the razor edge of madness

in the fierce break of waves along

the sea line

a half moon fading at dawn

in shifting shadows of endings.

I feel you in the sweet froth

and flow of memory.

In dark eyes that catch mine in

musty corridors of dreams

I see you

in the wild of wolves

the vigil of birds at my midnight window.

I sense you in sacred passages

where like phantoms we are lost.

art by Karol Bak

Karol Bak kneeling

Nothing has Changed

When dreams pull me under
I call out across the ocean
You meet me at  the shore
and there is nothing to  hold to
but silvery shadows that cross
and uncross in our slumbering sea.
I bend to you  fragile as  sea foam
tossed in wind rifts  released
from unfastened hands. 
This is how I love you
a prisoner of  repetition
like endless waves you come and go.

 

art by Victor Bauer

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

 

 

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

Interlude

I light my cigarette and turn to you

Within this dream  I propose we fly away

Your eyes so dark

whip my mind into arousal and your

rough hand  on my  thigh turns me

soft inside and everywhere

You whisper that my  hair so near

and my my full crimson lips devour you

Against waves of joy and sadness dreams are

always what it could be like

Suddenly hares chase foxes and Roebuck’s

hunt hunters and I bury my face in your

chest and to shield me from the terror you hold me within  bleak arms

and we fly away.

 

Related image

art by Babylon Premium

 

 

 

 

wings thrumming

I drift on an opalescent breeze
dreams flower in my hair
They shed in heaps of autumn leaves
rust and gold and green
I am traveling far from childhood
where dreams were never welcome
against transparent skies
I cast my tattered shadow
A Mayan goddess taking flight
thrumming ancient wings

goddess in flight

art by Karal Bak

Pagan Dreams

In dreams my

spirit guide is a Peregrine Falcon

with  wings open wide still

I never fly over  ancient

pathways of quilted fields or

deep woods of amber resin.

Even in dreams  I concede

I am not a  bird but never

really earthbound.

 

Image result for Karol Bak art bird lady

art by Karol Bak

Temple Bell

Your eyes are the crescent

of a silver bay that circles my mind

in the deep mystery of sleep

your voice an invocation of bells

that once rung cannot be undone

in dreams I am your dancer

beckoned at your will

I am a charme on your well cut cuff

a link on your diamond encrusted chain.

ballet

art by digitalina

net of dreams

I dreamed you beside me

in a small fishing village,

our bare feet dangling

from an ancient  wall.

Stone  soldiers, eternally

gaurding   held back the

swell of the rushing sea.

By the  beacon of a distant

lighthouse sea birds flew over

only to vanish beneath its

woeful beam.

A shell at my ear  I held you,

gathered  you in silk arms of netting.

Losing  my grip you slipped away,

freed from the catch of dreams.

sea side

 

 

when you go

When you leave I become

the sea gull begging salt from

from the briny air.

My veins are a winding tunnel

Of deep purple sea.

I channel you in the night owl’s

perpetual call  that  awakens the

Subconscious to the feel of

your phantom hand at the angle of my
hips.

At dawn your shirt hangs from a

Closet door in the buttery sunlight

and I become so small I could slip

inside the lining of your chest

sheltered by your warm skin where I

long to be.

 

 

art by Anuraag