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?

chinese girl

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.

 

Image result for art by Mark Spain

Mark Spain Art

 

Chartreux

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

passing by.

 

Vincent Van Gogh

 

 

the dark waters of sleep

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.

Indulging Conjecture

pink sand pulls away

from a glistening shore,

melting fondant in the

sticky heat.

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

unshaven cheek.

Let me   drown in the river of

your impossible eyes where there

is no threat of war…hard silence

or the burden of forgiveness.