Primitive

 Across a velvet backdrop
stars hang like crystals
strewn across the heavens
softly glowing lanterns
encircling tiny tealights
that wax and wane with
the out breath of sighs

dislodged they plummet
a streaking spectrum
in  the heavens
to vanish over mountains
plunge in to the sea
or diffidently fade into
a dark horizon

we are like the ocean
ebbing and flowing,
tumbling waves of unrest
altering course or still
as tide pools
hostage to the moon
until the heat of night
inflames our primal hearts
come out, ignite, be the fire.

 

 

 

art by Karol Bak

Pagan Dreams

In dreams my

spirit guide is a Peregrine Falcon

with  wings open wide still

I never fly over  ancient

pathways of quilted fields or

deep woods of amber resin.

Even in dreams  I concede

I am not a  bird but never

really earthbound.

 

art by Karol Bak

The Gold

Nights while you slept  my lips were so close I could draw your breath in like an infant at its mother’s breast. I  ran my fingers down the curve of your spine leaning in to inhale your sweet scent.  I entered that golden part of you, immersed the sea that claimed me in oceans of fiery sunsets.  When our hearts grew mute we knew we had drifted too near the sun.

art by Karol Bak

She’s Not A Lady

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

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 .

 

 

 

art by Karol Bak

 

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