Insects large and small flit
through the lemony filter of dense canopies.
In hushed whispers we point to a clearing
where a roe fawn nibbles at pine needles.
Soft as cotton clouds brush the crowns of ancient trees,
below a hanging mist clings to blonde foothills.
You pluck a marigold to tuck behind my ear,
a golden hand print left on my thigh.
I wind a garland of fern around your wrist,
close enough to run my fingers through your hair,
carry your scent back home with me.
Deborah Gryka “Turtle Woods”
I apologize ! I found that the comment section was turned off on this. I have gremlins.
Remember the summer
we were obsessed with Burroughs?
Anything familiar like the sound of far off
thunder close enough to subdue the mad-paced
hours. Something inciting, a strike of lightning.
The scent of combustion ready to ignite.
Everything electric that made us come alive.
Our hearts caught between whale song and sigh
spontaneous thunder and intermittent quiet
Sporadic as a summer storm.
Leonid Afremov “Rains Rustle”
With anonymous faces
you watch over my cradle,
your voice as soft as the aurora,
hair the color of a Ditch Lily
brushes against my cheek
and when I look up
my own face echoes back
My first rainbows are soaked
in your tears,
I am busy with life Mother,
its been so many years.
I am filled with light,
is that so wrong?
In the moonlight I am a shimmer
of anemone flowers washed ashore
on cascades of foamy waves across
the flawless imprint of my love.
Gossamer beams spill down our throats
where there is no need for words below
a sky filled with muted stars driven to be near us.
Tonight we are the sigh of winds
over high cliffs echoing from walls
of murky 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
my body becomes so small
I could fit into the minuscule heart
of a sea bird begging salt with his pulpy tongue.
A discarded shirt hangs on the bed post
and traces of you remain where
I return and return.
My cries unravel the clouds,
rain down like summer storms.
Carry me close, deep in your heart,
through the rhythmic sound of
railways, the snow covered alps
or the black tar of foothills.
He doesn’t know why she hurts, what she is thinking, he is not adept at examining those fine points best left in the pit of her belly. Her thoughts are dangerous bells, once rung they can’t be silenced. For him the final line is the closing, for her it is profound sadness.
The heart can fall like a suicide
spiral down like the shade of
cold as petals on an icy lake
a flowing grave of dreams
an echo chamber of pain
Let my tongue flirt like
a butterfly among
rather than polish my scars
debride my wounds.
Erect on a tall stalk
wrapped in veiny leaves
heavy with the burden
of viscous dew
for the love of light her
corolla lifts upright
a broad faced still life
anchored to the earth
she tracks the sun blindly
through the violet sky
At dusk she combs the air
retreating at twilight into
pearly pools of the moon.
Photograph by Heart
The clouds above are soft and the red earth sighs with the far off chant of natives, pure and natural. Now we are a hard place of frozen sidewalks and rails of trains that rush on like flocks of panicked geese. Their cold box cars carry the forgotten to Portland and unknown destinations where men in fine suits, their eyes lit with cruelty, sit behind vintage desks. We have forgotten the sweet breeze of a summer downpour, the call of a whippoorwill, everything beautiful that begs us to look up.
The waves are salty sea lions
and the sky is a shadow of gulls.
The summer sun spills down
my throat and there is little
need for words.
The sky is jacaranda and
the shore is willing to bear
the imprint of my bare feet,
slippery and wet.
The pearls I have gathered
I’ve scattered like the past,
cling to untied lifelines
something for my hands.
Steve Hanks Art