soft as pollen

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.

 

Summer with Burroughs

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”

inanimate muses

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

at me.

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?

 

 

google art

 

 

 

anemone

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

 

when I miss you

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.

 

 

 

google art

Common Ground

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

midnight deserts

  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

wildflowers

rather than polish my scars

debride my wounds.

 

 

 

 

I steer my boat
upstream beneath the lacy moss of
cedar trees where a  nightingale drapes
his song,  a spray of flowers over
whispering waters.
Beyond the shallow a wooden bridge
where we cast our secrets to the river.
Goldenrod along the bank bears witness
to  a  summer kiss and  breathless lovers
on a crumpled serape.
So blue were your eyes,
how deep the longing for those star lit nights.

 

Vanity, 1897 - Giovanni Segantini

 

 

the life cycle of a rose

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

with  sweetness

retreating  at twilight into

pearly pools of the moon.

 

 

RosePink

Photograph by Heart

of gods and monsters

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

pearls of summer

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