Browsing my journals
I am reminded of the past.
The door swings open
releasing sleek eels of memories
where I am nothing or at best
a trembling leaf caught in a spring breeze.
Do you ever think of me
find me in constellations pressed against the sky
or hear me in the sigh of an incoming tide?
I would seek comfort in the moon but I am
so trivial and he is taken by the stars.
In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake that
flicks hungrily along the length of your thigh
curling around the catch in my throat.
You are god and have named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers.
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy
There are times when I can see myself through
your eyes. My pale face so in love,
aching for the caress of a flaxen
haired boy racing through rolling fields.
Suddenly serious your adventurous eyes
sent yearning shivers through me.
I longed for your touch anytime and
kissed you opened mouth without
I adored your mock anger when you
chased after me and the awkward way
you looked down at your hands.
Soon Autumn threw its shadow on
sprouting wheat, smooth and wet.
Now, I listen to the soft whisper
of his breathing through a half
closed door and know there are
different kinds of love,
wild, ruthless, and unafraid.
art by Rob Hefferan
You are getting closer.
I hear the crunch of sand
and the skitter of stones beneath your
boots. The scent of tanned leather stings
my nostrils and fingers of steel butterflies
inflict fresh flesh wounds.
Your feathered crop gently brushes my shivering
shoulders, it floats over proud bones luring me
to the killing fields.
With no where to hide nothing can save me.
You have always known how to break wild horses.
I am a constellation
pasted to a smear of deep sky or
some god spun leaf drifting
a wintry blue pond.
My tongue turns silvery around
my words, do not take them
for sorrow I have named them
Do not forget me.
I still need you to carry me
over the pierce of thorns
My hands are good for nothing but
a plea do not forget me
I am still here my hair a tangle
You are my obsession
undulating waves of fixation
that can not be restrained.
What I know of you
I have learned through osmosis
the taste of ozone I crave
like breathing air.
Beauty only knows to
be beautiful, send me a
signal through the blackout.
Take my hand and let
me land in your warmth
for I am shivering.
It is always raining here,
I am nothing but precipitation
slipping down your skin.
This is an entire album…you might want to stop it at 4:24.
This morning I threw wide
that carved door of souvenirs.
The scent of sandal wood
filled the air and missing
you was a stone bruise.
Tonight I will walk down
to the shore, that galaxy
of pearls and tumbling waves
of frothy champagne.
The mangroves are filled with
flickers and blooms and the
sky glimmers with silvery mirth.
I could stay here until Spring among
the honey cake dunes and not think
of you at all.
I can hear the chatter of anxious birds. The wind and rain have shredded their nests. A sudden flight of wings fill wispy petals of clouds passing over.
Wandering further beneath the tall pines I hear their creaking branches stretch like old bones. Needing to be heard, the brittle crunch of leaves beneath my feet make their sound.
A White tail deer watches warily from a grassy knoll, his majestic antlers in silhouette against the splintered rays of sunset. My breath is but a whisper in this sacred place that offers everything and asks for nothing.
art by Lazada Philipine
Winter does not empathize
with withered branches or
displaced birds fleeing waves
of frozen breath.
Her howling wind is a laugh out loud and
she hasn’t the grace to cover her mouth.
A tease of holly and evergreen flicker
at the curve of billowed thighs
glistening folds of hallowed mounds
drift in other worldly sighs ensnared
in her exquisite binds.
art by Karol Bak