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
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.
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.
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
Remain here until the birds sing
our disparity, till reality overshadows
dreams and tears and dew drops blend.
Then we will part.
Art by Rae Williams at Pinterest
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.
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.
Photo by suswiss