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

On a thorny 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 across

an unpredictable 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

apple woman

A hummingbird is  etched
at the nape of my neck
 below a storm of hair
between  a shiver of shoulders.
She hovers like a tiny moon
sipping cruets of  honeysuckle.
My thoughts are  a cutlass of emotion,
a chisel of shame or the begging
tongue of a starving feral.
Outside pink berries perch on pale slopes
inside  a  harvest of  Robin’s eggs,
cached safe from the graze of sharp
teeth slicing through a sky blue dress.
My apple heart  harbors  man
whose anger is a ligature winding.
Its beat is  the warm river of release
or a bleed across across a torn canvas

 

 

shoulder tattoo

tatuajestatua

 

 

 

 

the edge of seasons

Even in death we live on

until the last breath can

no longer recall us.

Rooted in the cold ground,

ethereal,  is there a soul

beneath that cold marble?

Has time returned to the origin

before there was light?

Perpetually I come here,

through the edge of every season

beneath the purple sky

I breathe the eternity of you.

Do you ever scream  out unroll the earth,

dislodge these stones?

Do you ever feel my unfathomable

grief in your mouth.