Moonlit

The world is wintry blue.
Vast and still yet there
is no comfort in the quiet.
The wolf inside me shakes
the snow from her fur,
travels through dark timbered
forests and blue gray mountains.
There are others moonstruck,
dusted with the same shine.
Together we trace a midnight
hover of crows unaware.

The Sad Cafe

Autumn leaves have begun to fall.
Late October London is ablaze in hues of orange and purple.
On my bench by the river I daydream that I am an adolescent
reptile escaped from Kafka’s Die Verwanlung,
laid back basking in the sun.

The air is layered in heavy cologne but men don’t interest me now.
I am content to casually observe.
To my advantage I know all about them
while they know so little about me.

Thinking of you against my wishes, dying a little,
dead all the sweet hope of dreams never realized
I imagine my earthly body padded, sat beside yours on a grassy knoll
to breathe in the scent of lilac and the mossy green River Delta.

In the dark I am nude but for a shadow across my torso.
You are so near and to distract my self from this burning desire
I let my thoughts linger among the lines of Roethe’s “In A Dark Time”.

Years pass and by chance we meet at the sad cafe. I sway in your arms like a fragile birch in an autumn tempest. The halo of my eyes glisten recalling how we gave away what we never really had. We hold each other knowing that love has died and we with it.

“Sweet Bird”

After you left I ran along the shoreline past the jetties and scattered surfers hoping to catch the last waves. A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain. Fat globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Guttural sounds mutating to unearthly howls carried out across the waves. I waited there until they dissolved into the sea.

The sky is always blue and the ocean is frothy meringue not a murky sea where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip. Your eyes and throat sting with the rush of saltwater, screams fill your brain but not the air. Sea gulls swoop and squawk, perfect black angles against the sunlight. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.

Pagan Dreams

In dreams my

spirit guide is a Peregrine Falcon

with  wings open wide still

she never flies through ancient

pathways  filled with wood

and dark  amber resin

even in dreams she concedes

she is  not  a  bird but never

really earthbound.

 

Image result for Karol Bak art bird lady

art by Karol Bak

out of body

Your  glass is always half empty,  whiskey the color of your eyes when you are aroused.   I shut my eyes and fixate on the whir of the overhead fan. When you reach for me  I turn away, practicing  my “out of body” I look down from above until my eyes close.  Later we share a hand rolled cigarette, silently  watch  the curls  rise and rip apart in the blades.  Your soft eyes ensnare me, expose my liability.  It is so easy to distract you, pulling back the sheets we laugh,  make love and pull away.  Your eyes are the sparkle of stardust,  a boy at the top of a Ferris wheel.    I swear to  not meet again  but my heart is a red sports car racing along a razor’s edge.

 

art by Fabian Perez

confession

this is not meant for you
though you were there.
I am what I have always been,
an elixir of words.
I will not erode like the sand
or patience if it ever was.
Washed up on a restless shore
I knocked and you opened the door.
Now, like the pearls beneath my feet
I carry no burden save love.

Steve Hanks art

borrowed from Pinterest

washed away

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.

Man

You are perplexing.

When my eye lids close your aura lingers.  

I pretend to understand but I have yet to unravel the enigma.

Your soft growl grips my emotions, holds me tender with soft pads

or still with the urgent press of  teeth at my throat.

 What I know of you I’ve learned through osmosis

those flickers of  sentiment deep as roots of teeth.

My instincts send out a warning but with you so near it is too late.

One thing I know for certain  you are skilled at breaking and entering.

tigres-bebe

Harem of clouds

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

In search of your harem among the clouds .

 

 

 

wings1

art by Karol Bak

 

Sunday in the park

Your jeans are tight on your thighs,  you are unshaven, beautiful.   I’m surprised that I notice,  I never really see you anymore.  Arm in arm we  linger at the duck pond where you pull a packet of bread crumbs from your back pocket. The feathery creatures  come rushing up, their seeking  eyes expectant.  Mostly, I admire their detachment.   Lately when we make love it is without  passion,  lifeless.  I think about other men, I imagine that.   I would never want you to know. You are so pure,  so trusting,  it is frightening.  Sitting on the park bench lovers pass by, one is fierce and arrogant,  the other emaciated,   eyes corpse like.   They don’t speak.  I sigh,  like one who loves but is far away.