to get to you

In this dream  my arms
are the branches of trees
and you are my  nourishment.
Cut me down to a boat.
My  spine a sturdy keel,
my hair  the unfurled sails.
A lighthouse is my only lamp
for the stars have fallen into 
your hands.
If the sea does not capitulate, 
red sails   cast into a cleft 
too wide  for me to cross,
I was trying to get to you.

 

Art from Getty

 

 

 

 

The Moon and Trees

Beyond the terrace
I pace barefoot through
the garden past the blurred
flowers that bend their petals
as though they know me.
Brilliant in the starlight
the old tree stands apart
as if  having outgrown the
rest it needs space.
It sighs to the song of a breeze
limbs reaching to the sky.
I wonder if it has eyes
to hold such history.
I feel it is friends
with the moon
I  hear them laughing at us.

 

2469

when you go

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

 

 

woman waiting

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?

chinese girl

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

 

 

 

 

 

Wolves

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.

 

 

Heron

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.

 

 

 

wings1

art by Karol Bak

 

reinventing childhood

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

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