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

IMG_2421-1

Dedicated to Resa @ https://artgowns.com

 

unnamed

View original post

nothing has changed

When dreams pull me under
I call out across the ocean.
You meet me at  the shore
and there is nothing to  hold to
but silvery shadows that cross
and uncross in our slumbering sea.
I bend to you as fragile as  sea foam
tossed in wind rifts  you release
from unfastened hands. 
This is how I love you, a prisoner of repetition,
like endless waves you come and go.

 

 

 

art by Victor Bauer

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

Because It Will Not Be

Does the dog still bark, when after midnight the heat forces you to fling the window open?
I miss your laid-back voice in the humid dark. How does the third layer of blue dry on the oil painting you once painted for me?

I don’t have bad memories. I’m sad about the future, naïve daydream that we’ll never share.
We’re both jaded from too many sunsets of love sinking down swiftly behind picturesque silhouettes. Still I feel I should have yelled at you just once
to procrastinate my lingering heart attack, you’d have been too distracted anyway.

So, come out my heart, let’s  stroll along the lonely shore and breathe some sexless air
watch another bloody sunset because this time it isn’t meant for us.

Poetry by the author writing as Serge Gurkski 

the twilight hours

I feel you in the pouring rain

violent or soft as a summer storm.

A distant star you appear only to fade

into the night from which you came.

Decaying gardenias fill my room with mortality

a treacly specter of  memories.

Wounded hearts are slow to heal

I have become indifferent to pain.

We are a wasteland,  all poetic breath died with us.

I long for the scent of earth infused with deep roots

the soothing sounds of chimes swaying from the

limb of a live oak,  soothing sounds for the twilight hours.

Image result for paintings of dying gardenias

 

What I’ve Become

You are my obsession

undulating waves of fixation

that can not be restrained.

What I know of you

I have learned through osmosis

the taste of ozone I  crave

like breathing air.

Beauty only knows to

be beautiful,  send me a

signal through the blackout.

Take  my hand and let

me land in your warmth

for I am shivering.

It is always raining here,

I am nothing but precipitation

slipping down your skin.

 

 

This is an entire album…you might want to stop it at 4:24.

The Deceit of White Oleander

Winter mists the window panes
with veiny tributaries that trickle
to the sill with a warm touch.
The trajectory of time trails run  off
down the mountain side an affirmation
of spring the honey-sweet deceit  of
white Oleander.
Remain here until the birds sing
our disparity, till reality overshadows
dreams and tears and dew drops blend.
Then we will part.

 

 

Image result for Painting of a beautiful woman with a pink Oleander

Art by Rae Williams at Pinterest

Islamorada

This morning  I threw wide
that carved door of souvenirs.
The scent of sandal wood
filled the air and  missing
you was a stone bruise.
Tonight  I will walk down
to the shore,  that galaxy
of pearls and tumbling  waves
of frothy champagne.
The mangroves are filled with
flickers and blooms and the
sky glimmers with silvery mirth.
I could stay here until Spring among
the  honey cake dunes and not think
of you at all.

 

renesoto

google art

 

lily’s world

When she was young
she would run to the fountain,
swept up in the lyrics of
a misty waterfall.
Held beloved in a never changing world she mined a treasure all gardeners strive to grow,
lilies poppies and marigolds.
With time the sky darkened and the earth grew cold and no arms waited at the waterfall.

5691a16d2c2e1daad5581a339e817bba

Photo by suswiss