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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
Your eyes are Himalayan blue,
they mutate from sparkling stars to the silver
of a cold planet.
With indifference you defeat me
until I am nothing more than an empty
vessel sailed away to write love letters
on the wings of distant angels.
When your nights are long
you may find me in the brush of a
homeless Chartreux winding about your
feet or in the sunflower eyes of a girl
Vincent Van Gogh
I am a river
entering another river
plunging naked into the
depths of your mind.
Erotic dreams emerge
from the dark waters of sleep.
Perhaps you are not a river
but a flowing dimension of my desire.
Let me wrap you in wings of angels
bind you in garlands of longing,
etch my name in to your bones.
My ears shall be your confessional,
my body your comforter
and there is no sin grave enough.
pink sand pulls away
from a glistening shore,
melting fondant in the
Minute ecosystems inhabit
grottoes in their tide pools
of wet sand.
Some days I stroll the coast alone,
indulging realms of lovers
where there is no logic but
a crushing ache I hold to my breast,
a carapace between a heart and the
mountains where I left you.
Allow me to come undone
beneath the weight of tender
hands on eggshell, my sigh a gentle quake On
Let me drown in the river of
your impossible eyes where there
is no threat of war…hard silence
or the burden of forgiveness.