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.

 

Primitive

 Across a velvet backdrop
stars hang like crystals
strewn across the heavens
softly glowing lanterns
encircling tiny tealights
that wax and wane with
the out breath of sighs

dislodged they plummet
a streaking spectrum
in  the heavens
to vanish over mountains
plunge in to the sea
or diffidently fade into
a dark horizon

we are like the ocean
ebbing and flowing,
tumbling waves of unrest
altering course or still
as tide pools
hostage to the moon
until the heat of night
inflames our primal hearts
come out, ignite, be the fire.

 

 

 

art by Karol Bak

A black spell night

Drawn by possibility

I am at war with resistance,

A desperate allure of words

becoming flesh.

The tender momentum of hands

ignites a perfect fire  on taut  boughs of

willowy limbs  powerless   to undo a black

spell night.

Come dawn I am a periwinkle

at your pillow,   pale petals of desire

bending to what is golden.

 

 

innocensedawn at pinterest

 

the lethal dose

There are days  shadows course

through me like a breeze,

pressing deep into my life line and

the air is the scent of a stale satin pillow

where I refuse to lay my head.

I don’t fear  those intrepid ghosts,

I embrace and release them with

failed  gravity or the force that once

held the cupped hand of my lover.

The sky was alive then with every shade of

blue and the clarity of Windsor eyes

where I longed for space.

Desire is a stranger,  a lethal dose,

 encountered beneath a sacred mound.

art by Laura Makabresku

washed away

Firelight dances through the bistro,
We lean in close and when our eyes meet
the rain storm streaming down the
stain glass window reclaims us.
Swept away through sea caves,
caverns and seal black maelstroms
we ride the darkness,
diving deep we take what we need.
Thieves, we steal only from ourselves.

Negril

In the hushed silence between waves
sighs fill the night as stars come alive
and the breeze is a soft poem.
Nude in the moon light but for drifting
shadows the swirl in your glass keeps
perfect time with far off thunder.
I need to look away from your gun powder eyes
that lethal shot
before the fluttering of a thousand butterflies
betray me.
I breathe in the circlets of your cigarette and
the honey sweet scent of willing hostages.
As fragile as fireflies we escape to the madness of
our minds where all we have to do is live.

Liliana Gigovic

soft as pollen

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.

Soft as  cotton clouds brush the crowns of ancient trees,

below a  hanging mist  clings to  blonde foothills.

You pluck a  marigold to tuck behind my ear,

a golden hand print left on my thigh.

I wind a garland of fern  around your wrist,

close enough to run my fingers through your hair,

carry your scent back home with me.

 

 

Deborah Gryka  “Turtle Woods”

 

I apologize ! I found that the comment section was turned off on this.  I have gremlins.

 

woman waiting

Lips wet with mist,  the breeze of a kiss,

water grass sweeping through diaphanous dreams.

The strains of  a sonata stream,

rivers of veins filled with bloods wildness

a song  blue playing with fire.

Tongues of lovers burn with allegory

celestial walls of silence.

Hear the firewood snap and hiss

the burning heat of need.

Has her awakening come to late?

Art by Liu

 

Unbeknownst to me this poem was picked up in October  and published at Bon Bon Lifestyle Webazine. Thank you  Bon Bon Lifestyle, and thank you Jonathan for letting me know.

woman waiting — House of Heart

 

 

 

 

 

Sandalwood and lavender

When dawn became morning, with the graceful arms of a ballerina, she tossed bread crumbs to finches and towhees gathered at the feeder.  Sadly the flowers lay drenched in nights raindrops, puddled  petals in a potpourri garden.

Wiping dried wax from the  bedside table  she replaced  melting  candles that held too many memories.  Her silk   scarves were cached in a pale blue armoire but for the rose hued tossed across the night lamp.

The hours pass slowly in  a room  blushed with moon-glow,  the  faint scent of sandalwood and  a hint of  dried lavender.

 

Mark Spain Art