In the moonlight a shimmer

of anemone flowers wash ashore

settling among pearls of sand.

Gossamer  beams spill down

where there is no need for words below

a sky  of  muted stars  driven to be near


We are the sigh of winds

Echoing  over high cliffs cascading from from  murky walls of caves and back again

Tethered to nothing we are

free of burden,  golden sand enticing the

current through ancient reefs,

released forever back to the sea.


Coral Reef  from Google


what the night birds sing – poetry by Gurkski

What the night birds

sing when dreaming

I can translate to you as though

I were another  San Francesco.

They sing this: open your heart

like the blossom of a Ditch Lily

kissing the warm night

in the dark light.

Let the Pegasus of your most

daring fantasies fly high.

That’s what they sing

in this sweet night.

Calle Ocho

In the shadows of a rundown bar

she breathes cigars and Cuba Libre.

A Spanish guitar plays Guananey

as she swallows the night

in a sunflower dress with no shoes.

She  longs for her homeland

and the impossible dream of




” Havana ” Roman Virdi



maybe i’m crazy

We begin making things up  by six or seven,

minds of  hummingbirds we sip from illusion

If you  desire we will  take you with us

to  the  eddy of an ever prodding muse

where we dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.


Some mornings I Leave as though I am going to work.   Instead I walk downtown and meld with the chaotic masses, look into  eyes that are  infused with survival,   relentless whispers  fade into the crowd,  leaving the scent of pungent cologne and café cubano. The sights and and smell imprint the back of my eyes and cling to my nostrils.
I bring a flower for you  from the garden, eat an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory makes me rub  against you in search of  that emotional trigger, the wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. At night I stay awake after you go. I can’t write where we make love, not just to annoy you.  When I write myself empty with meaningless devastation  then I may sleep.   Even I know I’m crazy because it all makes sense.





Put to rest Adam’s story,  a myth written  by  forty men of diverse background over the course of fifteen hundred years and followed by the clergy for centuries.  We bow our heads to  patriarchal rule,  a not so thinly disguised tide of misogyny beginning with Adam’s lassitude.  Many of us  have forgotten who we are,  accept that if we are brutalized it is our fault.  Brutality is about power not lust.
As long as time
she has endured
thundering boots on
feathered feet that soft
as moonlight dance beneath
the dominion of praise or condemnation.
Her words, intrepid sprouts
taut as the curve of a bow held back
reveal her power,
he sees it in her eyes.
celtic woman
Celtic Woman on Tumblr


She’s Not a Lady

Winter does not empathize
with withered branches
or displaced birds fleeing waves of
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.



Karol Bak


ambrosia for deities

I could convince you

that the world is

ambrosia for deities

dropped on our tongues

in syrupy slices while

we linger immortal

in Aristophanes’ veil

of illusion.

My lips are the arc of

a butterfly dripping thick

and golden adventures into your

weightless body.

As light as feathered birds

we resist the pull of gravity,

succumb to ruby filaments

where the only peril is a

paradise that may consume us.



Butterfly goddess by Arkel666

arkell 166

Hearts Of Lovers


You are more rare than

a bird of paradise.

Let me leave my mark

upon your feathers

soft as eider down.

On a widespread river

amid the perfume of damp flowers

sing to me a mock sinner’s lullaby

in return I offer you pearls

and the hollow at my throat.




angel wings


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