The Gold

Nights while you sleep  my lips are so close I can draw your breath in like an infant at its mother’s breast. I  run my fingers down the curve of your spine leaning in to inhale the scent of your body.   I have entered that golden part of you, immersed the sea that claimed me in oceans of fiery sunsets.  When our hearts grow mute we will know we we  have drifted too near the sun.

 

art by Karol Bak

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I brought the rain

I want to hold you closer.

You smell of sandal wood

and  earth after a summer shower.

Because I breathe you, I don’t need the air

and I know how it feels to swim through stars.

In the muted night  we sing our song.

You give me a midnight choir,

I always bring the rain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Moon and Trees

Beyond the terrace
I pace barefoot through
the garden past the blurred
flowers that bend their petals
as though they know me.
Brilliant in the starlight
the old tree stands apart
as if  having outgrown the
rest it needs space.
It sighs to the song of a breeze
limbs reaching to the sky.
I wonder if it has eyes
to hold such history.
I feel it is friends
with the moon
I  hear them laughing at us.

 

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while I was thinking of you

These verses are

flames meant to melt the

chalice of your heart.

In the  white night

we cross the continents,

feel but never touch.

Our secrets,  too sacred  for the light,

set the night on fire.

I am profanity in a scarlet sky,

A blasphemy of flaws to small to alter fate.

While I was  thinking of you

a fledgling fell to earth,

saved by the wind  on her

passage to life.

 

red head on a bench

 

From my window

I look down on  a garden
of moonlit  flowers.
 I need to be loved like  roses,
the silvery blade of that
crescent moon slipping  through
nameless  things on winged feet
flitting among   Zoysia grass
nipping at life with amorous teeth.

 

 

the twilight hours

 

Only earth angels hear the tender rippling

of hearts.

In the pounding rain we bare our quills,

reappear from veiled cages.

Bruises of the soul are slow to heal

but we are  indifferent to pain.

Gardenias fill the  room with mortality,

petals of sweet secrets nurtured by the

rhapsody of recollection.

Surrendering dreams makes us still,

and poetic breath dies with us.

We long for the  scent of earth

infused in deep roots,

 to hear again  the swaying chimes on  limbs

of a slender Linden  synchronized for the

twilight hours.

 

 

The Letter

I left a message for you in a book.
It is like me to mark provocative phrases,
to shake them out in ponderous verses.
Do not read too much in the fallout,
the notes in the border are for nostalgia’s sake.
I dreamed of you again last night.
My adversary,  always teasing me.
Your aura I  barely recall yet you linger,
the suffering is in not knowing what is real and what isn’t.

Realistic-Portraits-by-Christina-Papagianni-21

art by Rob Hefferan

Mademoiselle Emily

A beautiful tribute to Gigi by Resa. I tried to capture her with words but she’s already poetry. 🌺

Art Gowns

Did you ever channel a white cat, a wedding gown and  Jean Harlow?

Well then you know it comes out an Art Gown, and that Art Gown is dedicated to;

Georgiann Carlson from Rethinking Life blog. Georgiann’s blog is full of art, Chicklets, creative writing, flowers, Chicago, Emily and opinions.

Deciding it must be a Harlow 1930’s style movie star gown, dictated a bias cut.

Admittedly, being a rank amateur in working with bias, I was cursed with many problems. Nonetheless, it’s a challenge I’ve wanted to tackle for a long time.

Designers, like Chanel and Vionnet,  championed the anti-corset generation. Finally, women could feel more comfortable in their clothes.

At a liquidation sale, I found an 18″ wide bordeur lace for $0.50/yard.

What costs $0.50 these days? I bought 75 yards.

Thinking like a cat, I decided to shred the lace.

Using scissors for claws, I deconstructed the…

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Cave People

Tonight in my nest of stones I have not slept.
Through the walls my neighbors fight over how
best to spend their time as it silently slips through
the space between their fingers.
As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be
present for the hours left.
When the  dawn  climbs above the ocean I can see
that deep amber on the shore,  the color of
 my lover’s eyes when  aroused,  waning to hues
of   gold that glint  in my half empty glass.
In the unkempt night I rearrange decaying books
wander halls of memories pillaging my mind.

 

 

Trinette Reed photography

Breaking Horses

You are getting closer,

I   hear the crunch of  soft sand,

the skitter of stones beneath your boots.

Your scent passes through my parted lips

stinging the flare of my nostrils and the choke

in  my throat while your hands of steel butterflies

float over  proud  bones  luring me gently

to the killing fields.

Your   fingers are    the scent of tanned leather,

I lick them like fresh  flesh wounds.

Your feathered crop gently brushes  my shoulders,

no one can save me now, there is nothing to do,

because you have always known how

to break wild horses.

 

girls-horses-500-3110

 

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