the Sad Cafe (V)

The room is stifling with

deflowered souls.

The sad cafe tends to its ghosts

but we are more than grateful to forget.

There are no secrets among these

desolate lovers disfigured by life.

We inhale circlets of smoke

that linger in the air and taste lips

dripping desire.

The night arches its back

to drunken angels so we dance

beneath stars that meet us halfway.

“Knowing” by Andrew Atroshenko

Interlude

In this dream I turn to you

light my cigarette from the glowing

tip of yours.

I propose we fly away.

Your dark eyes whip my mind

into arousal and your elegant hand

on my thigh turns me soft inside.

Your breathing is a sigh against

my ear that whispers my hair

and crimson lips so near devours

your resistance.

Against waves of longing and desire

dreams are always what it could

be like.

Suddenly hares chase foxes

and Roebucks hunt hunters and

to shield me from the terror you

hold me within bleak arms.

We are light breathing

sweet molecules into the night

It would be easy now to fly.

Babylon Premium

The Riches

From the window

as quiet as  as a river I can watch

the moon shiver in the breeze

through the fronds of palm trees.

Hibiscus wave like  children

their mouths move  silently,

hands of garland reach out to

one another.

I am grateful for the sweet

drape of your eyes that like

fluttering wings of birds lift

the shawl of darkness where in

the light  prismatic butterflies

breach their  chrysalis and

vanish in the arching sky.

These are the riches

the golden sunlight passing through us.

Breathing air

When I am near you I become a  glimmering

  chimera of mirrors tempered of shell and sand

a cascading niagara plunging into deep pools of desire

where I am so afraid to fall.  

Powerless to hold back I  immerse in the irides  of your  eyes

as speechless as  tongueless    birds.

The current of tides tangles you in the succulent

mirage of my eyelashes. You and I are more than

the wispy smoke of clouds or an epoch of bones

but the breathing air of lovers rushing through veins  

as gentle or fierce as the press of your thigh on mine.

A Different Kind of Love

There are times when I can see myself

through your eyes.

My pale face so in love

aching for the caress of a flaxen

haired boy racing through rolling fields.

Suddenly serious your adventurous eyes

sent yearning shivers through me.

I longed for your touch anytime and

kissed you opened mouth without

permission.

I adored your mock anger when you

chased me and the awkward way

you looked down at your hands.

Soon Autumn threw its shadow on

sprouting wheat, smooth and wet.

Now, I listen to the soft whisper

of your breathing through a half

closed door and know there are

different kinds of love

wild, ruthless, and unafraid.

Summer with Burroughs

Remember last summer ?

We were obsessed with

Burroughs.

Anything familiar,

the sound of far off thunder

close enough to subdue

the mad-paced hours.

Something  inciting,

like a strike of lightning

the odor of combustion

ready to ignite.

Everything electric

that made us come alive.

Our hearts caught between

whale song and sigh,

spontaneous thunder

with intermittent quiet,

sporadic as a summer storm.

Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”

Beside the River

Remember the cabin among the trees hidden like rabbits resting in nests of autumn leaves?  Beside the window that looks out on the river there is a writer’s desk  with printer’s ink and fresh flowers kissed by the sun  in  the sill.
Do you recall the sweet days we shared  among redwoods that spoke to us?  The memory evokes such nostalgia for that ache, that fierce crushing devotion. I left a heart shaped basket of seeds in the arch of a tree for the birds to scatter, etched our names on its bark.  I will always  remember you and the cabin by the river,  the sultry nights I would dance fit you, sheer layers floating  to the herringbone floor.

Indulging Conjecture

Pink sand pulls away

from the glistening shore

melting fondant in the

sticky heat

Minute  ecosystems inhabit

tiny  grottoes in  tide pools

of wet sand

Some days I stroll the coast alone

escaping into secret realms of lovers

where there is no logic but

an aching crush I hold to my breast

a passage between a heart and the

mountains where I left you

Allow me to come undone beneath

tender hands on eggshell

the gentle quake of a sigh upon your

unshaven cheek

Let me   drown in the green river of

your eyes where there

is no threat of war hard silence

or the burden of forgiveness

Storms

I am touched
by a storm
the tongue of a
fire that burns
away sleep.
A tide crashing
into millions of
crystal droplets
becoming the sun.
My heart is ripe
like summer fruit
sweet juices flushing
tingling veins.
There is a storm circling
the pit of my stomach rising
to ache in my throat.

Steve Hanks art

soft as cotton

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.

Clouds  soft as cotton brush the crowns of ancient trees

below  a  hanging mist clings to  blonde foothills.

You pluck a  marigold to tuck behind my ear

your  golden hand print left on my thigh.

I wind a garland of leaves around your wrist

close enough to run my fingers through your hair

carry your scent back home with me.

 

 

Deborah Gryka  “Turtle Woods”