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
Lips wet with mist, the breeze of a kiss,
water grass sweeping through diaphanous dreams.
The strains of a sonata stream,
rivers of veins filled with bloods wildness
a song blue playing with fire.
Tongues of lovers burn with allegory
celestial walls of silence.
Hear the firewood snap and hiss
the burning heat of need.
Has her awakening come to late?
Art by Liu
Unbeknownst to me this poem was picked up in October and published at Bon Bon Lifestyle Webazine. Thank you Bon Bon Lifestyle, and thank you Jonathan for letting me know.
woman waiting — House of Heart
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
This page is filled with peril,
the pen is a black snake.
Her chest is filled with moths
their ragged wings beat the walls
of the darkest cave.
Slender wrists are heavy with flies
they are keen on something sweet
but her hands seek seams of silver
that slip away like starlings,
or veins of gold embedded stone.
A flock of Starlings in Scotland…Scott Heppell AP
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
Your stained glass wings, the sweeping
breadth of Monarchs, flutter fervently among the
The weeping falls of willows bow down.