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 charm on a well cut cuff
a link on a diamond encrusted chain.
art by digitalina
Near daybreak, my eyes close,
my mind steps down into our most
beloved poem
*In a dark time the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade …
I look out upon our desperate gardens.
A raven sits motionless on the branch
of a skeleton tree greedily eyeing the
tiny lark all feathers and bone.
In the state between sleep and wake
I traverse birth and mortality,
the faintest hint of earthy candles
sweeps the orb of my celestial dreaming
a sensation of pearls like tiny moons
falling from my open palms ,
and you, whose sigh is a strophe
of sonnets, waits far at the boundary,
not a spirit or rose tinged snow
but flesh and bone and sinew.
Alone I am sleeping less,
roused by the wing beats of Boreal Owls
circling ancient Cypress trees
their screech a fist of wind with knife edge
talons erupt through feathery curtains,
breech my seclusion,
dark traces that vibrate my hemispheres.
A lofty breeze lifts me over the valley
to a moonlit hillside of sweet lea.
There an ivory fox lies down beside me.
He is the scent of ripe wheat fields
his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.
*In A Dark Time by Roethke
Art from Getty
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.
When you leave I become
the sea gull begging salt from
from the briny air.
My veins are a winding tunnel
beneath a deep purple sea.
I channel you in the snow owl’s
perpetual call that awakens the
sleeping night and the phantom of
your hand at the linen across my hip.
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 against the warm skin
where I long to be.
art by Anuraag
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
Stunned 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.
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
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.
Firelight dances through the bistro,
We lean in close and when our eyes meet
the rain storm streaming down the
stain glass window reclaims us.
Swept away through sea caves,
caverns and seal black maelstroms
we ride the darkness,
diving deep we take what we need.
Thieves, we steal only from ourselves.
I am sleeping less,
roused by wingbeats of Boreal Owls
circling ancient Cypress,
gripping knotty branches with a clutch
of talons .
When I close my eyes fists of wind
breech my seclusion, erupt through
unbound curtains of dark recollections
that vibrate through my hemispheres.
A soft breeze carries me through the
valley to a moonlit hillside of sweet lea.
A silver wolf lies down beside me.
He is the scent of golden meadows and
his eyes are the color of an eastern sky.
Some nights I must draw a line,
a demarcation where dreams
and subconscious bend perception
to shape reality.
In my savage dreams I peel back my skin
press bristles of feathers through my bones
take to the sky on a fury of wings
searching for you among our harem of clouds.
art by Karol Bak
