of love and war

To survive  I follow our

paths from the past  that

summon without consent.

There lies your winter coat

where we once lay,

buried below  decaying needles

of a forest floor that smells of pine.

The silence is as hard as pounding hooves

or soft as the moon rising in your

kingdom of stars.

 

Gurkski’s  ” Il me faut t’abandonne”

“Come dusk is when my mind walks out

from where I fence myself in,

my dark room of nightly delights where

I encounter her,  my queen of all things blue

and we fight right from the start

To  make me love her even more.

I place the hands of my heart to gather

my hunting spirit, follow her footprints

into our forests of  love and war.”

( excerpt)

Origin

In the moment

I  watch the storm clouds roll in,

lap the salty raindrops with my cupped tongue.

A voyeuristic wanderer my eyes bright with wonder

oblivious to the future unsullied by the past.

art by Sabi Sabi

 

I still feel you

at the razor edge of madness

the fierce break of waves along

 the sea line

in dark amber eyes that catch mine 

in musty corridors of dreams

I  feel you in the wild of wolves

in  vigils of  nightingales at my

midnight window

I  feel you in the sacred ache

of   my  bones

 

art by Karol Bak

Falling

Wide  walls of

water tumble into deep pools

spilling over slippery quartz.

Grasping at jagged edges

She steps onto the mossy sludge,

sinks into  soggy pockets of

blue-green algae.

Slender fingers  grab at  veiny

pulleys of the  forest yet when

She reaches they resist.

The water is screaming indignation,

a fury thrashing upon stone,

Penance for thwarting

it’s downward path and there is

no way to console them.

Retribution is why She comes here,

a pounding  retaliation,

the sting of needles on her back

stones soothed by wrath.

 

 

a thousand years

Cover the sky with your hand.

The summit of your palm is the moon.

Your fingers are  streams of stardust

sweeping through an  ancient dune

or  the slender branches of forked trees.

Glide them across the  desert,

over valleys,  the soft and sediment.

I am every woman you have loved,

their dynamic wings beat in me.

Recall my eyes as history,

you have lived here a thousand years.

 

art by Louis Treserras

Song of Seasons

Hold me in  fleeting hours

when we are beautiful and wild,

our flesh  full and ripe, winged creatures

drinking up the night  as honeysuckle

is sustained by the  sun and the rain.

Stay  when summer departs and the

garden sips at  laughter pooled in

the irides of  our eyes.

Lie with me in winter when the

birds hold their song,

tiny skeletons of  hollow bone

indifferent to the cold.

For you my lips are   petals,

sweet  reminders  of lost flowers.

If  you do not return

but fly on  to distant gardens

my body will seek shelter

beneath wings of tongueless birds.

House of Heart

Halt mich fest in flüchtigen Stunden

den schönen und wilden,

unser Fleisch ist voll und reif, geflügelte Wesen

saugen die Nacht auf, Jelängerjelieber,

die von Sonne und den Regen gespeiste.

Bleib, wenn der Sommer vergeht und der

Garten vom Lächeln nippt,

das aus der Iris deiner Augen blitzt.

Lieg bei mir im Winter, wenn die

Vögel zu singen einhalten,

winzige Skelette aus hohlen Knochen,

gleichgültig der Kälte gegenüber.

Für dich sind meine Lippen Blütenblätter,

süße Erinnerungen an verlorene Blumen.

Wenn du nicht zurückkehrst

sondern weiterfliegs, wird mein Körper Schutz suchen

unter den Flügeln zungenloser Vögel.

translated by Bernd Huschenreuther

art by Steve Hanks

Man

You are perplexing.

When my eye lids close your aura lingers.

I pretend to understand but I have yet to unravel the enigma.

Your soft growl grips my emotions, holds me tender with soft pads

or still with the urgent press of teeth at my throat.

What I know of you I’ve learned through osmosis

those flickers of sentiment deep as roots.

My instincts send out a warning but with you so near it is too late.

One thing I know for certain you are skilled at breaking and entering.

an almost kiss

I enjoy most the wind
carrying dandelion parachutes,
dispersing tiny seeds across a meadow.
That same breeze winding
erratic patterns into my hair.
The softness of a new sweater;
it will never feel so soft again.

I like to explore the meaning of
of life over a glass of wine,
all laid back and philosophic
unless it becomes oppressive;
then a soft smile to break the tension
and an almost kiss.

the shallows

I am a lone bird wheeling jagged edges

of ancient cliffs above the shallows

of a rough Dover sea.

My feathers gleam in the beam of

the lighthouse where gentle swells

pulse against hollow bones that in

pale blue dreams you hold tenderly

in your palm like a treasured pearl.

We have abandoned the lighthouse

that seems to lean closer to the sea

waiting in vain at the tide swept shore.

The beam has ceased its search,

still each time I pass by I tip my wing.

Art by R. Simon

the red dawn

At night we wander like interlacing
tendrils weaving the desert sand,
touching, entwining, your body
stretching to mine, tightening,
giving way, every ripple replicated
like the amber sand.
At Night the desert grows sweet,
we swim in the cool raindrops of dreams
where each breath is a verse.
A silent Oracle I write Arabesque on
the grain of your skin so when
you emerge at the red of dawn
you will remember.