A Winged Bird

I am who I have always been

a shiver of soft reeds beside the river

or the cascade of  a waterfall.

Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn sky

gathering their kind they circle

back for me.

I can scarcely bear the

splendor of the world,

its wonder humbles

the wisp  that is me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue,

stunned by the promise

of a  red dawn.

Elegant trees  lift

their mighty arms,

grand  gods host creatures

large and small.

Their noble crowns filled

with a cornucopia of life.

I want to sail across the sea

tiny fleck that is me,

a winged bird   bearer of

no possession,

a fragment of the universe

art by Amy Judd (represented by Hicks Gallery)

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

beside the River

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

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”

 

 

 

Stasis

I shower and dress, apply makeup as though I am going to work.  I barely recognize  my own  reflection   in the mirror but  I am wearing my favorite dress and my hair is the color of rusty nails.  I ignore your perplexed expression and questions.

Downtown I meld into the chaotic masses,  eyes that are infused with the pain of   survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fade with the crowd. Sweat  and strong coffee stings  my nostrils, clings to skin.  Alien faces  are etched behind my eyes.

The familiar  girl  is  propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Her head rests against   skeletal arms that  wrap around her knees.  Jarred by a boot she glances upward from her induced euphoria,  fumbles in the pocket of torn jeans  fishing out a handful of dollars.  Glancing around the man slips it beneath his belt and places a small bag into her weedy fingers that loosen, dropping it between her feet. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold.

Repelled by the  scent of urine, even the pigeons keep their distance and the stray dog lifts his feet. I feel those good intentions rising but they remain contained in my hermit mind. Does it count that I thought of her as she isolates to death?

Making my way back I pass  that abandoned  garden, pick a flower to playfully  slip behind your ear. I rely on distractions these days.

You kiss the back of my neck and once again describe your  beloved island and how the sun’s glare bounces off the seas surface and  life glides beneath the sparkling blue that spreads over the horizon.

From my deserted garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to rub my body against you in search of that trigger,  that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone.

She Doesn’t Speak French

On sleepless nights

I stroll the left bank in black sequined heels

My Eyelids heavy with smoky glitter.

Among the art I find you
your essence pierces my veins

settles in the pool of my heart

 soft lights flicker their last warning in the sad cafe where

like willows we sway to long forgotten love songs

then you are gone a Modigliani reclining never hearing
Je t’aime the only French I know.

 

Mark Spain Art

 

“Je t’aime, Je t’aime
Comme un fou, comme un soldat
Comme une star de cinéma
Je t’aime, je t’aime
Comme un loup, comme un roi
Comme un homme que je ne suis pas
Tu vois, je t’aime comme ça”

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 after 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 his breathing through a half

closed door and know there are

different kinds of love,

wild, ruthless, and unafraid.

art by Rob Hefferan

Resa and the Rock Star – night music

House of Heart

 

 

 

Remember back when you were a rock star

and I was a hippie angel?

How enchanted  we were with  our

heart  and souls bared.

Do you remember now that you are so far

away that night  you came to me

and I came to you and the rest of the world

slipped away?

We held one another,  made love and cried

and vowed to never to speak of how every time

the lights went out you hurried to my side

so tender, coming and then  going.

Young and in love, we named that month Eden.

Do you remember our anguished goodbye

Neither do I.

 

Resa and the Rock Star

Dedicated to Resa @ https://artgowns.com

 

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Cave People

In my nest of stones I have not slept. Upstairs the neighbors fight over how best to spend their time as it silently slips through the space between fingers.   As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be present for those hours remaining.  The windows are dark in the townhouse across the way   but for a lamp shrouded in a rose colored scarf.  Stirred by the sound of an ocean breeze I imagine I am a pale warrior charged with the safety of sleeping birds as a cat passes by  casually eyeing them from a wire fence.  At last when  dawn  climbs above the ocean I can see deep amber on the shore,  the color of my lover’s eyes when aroused.  Those subtle  hues of gold  that glint and sparkle in my half empty glass.  I spend my  night rearranging decaying books,  drifting down smoke filled halls,  pillaging my mind.

 

 

a longing

I steer my boat

beneath the lacy moss of

cedar trees where a  lark  drapes

her song,  a spray of flowers, along

the whispering stream.

Beyond the shallows a wooden bridge

where we cast our secrets to the water,

goldenrod along the bank witness the

 breathless embrace of  lovers.

So blue were your eyes those summer days,

 how endlessly deep the longing.

art by Steve Hanks