my 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 holy for the light
set the night on fire.
I am profanity in a sacred sky,
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.
Only earth angels hear the tender rippling
of hearts.
In the pounding rain we
bare our quills to the world,
reappear from our veiled cage.
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 a rhapsody of recollection.
Surrendering dreams makes us still,
a vast wasteland where all poetic breath
dies with us.
We long for the clean scent of Spring,
the rust smell of earth infused in deep roots,
to hear again the swaying chimes on the limbs
of a slender Linden,
synchronized for the twilight hours.
art by Rob Hefferan
A beautiful tribute to Gigi by Resa. I tried to capture her with words but she’s already poetry. 🌺
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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Trinette Reed photography
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.
I know I love you
because when I think
of you my heart feels full,
a pond choking with water hyacinth,
their hungry roots reaching deep
into the beds of yearning,
overflowing walls of longing
where I am so afraid to fall .
Because I love you I forfeit
my privilege, allow my heart
to drown in you as though you
are liquid.
Vincent Van Gogh
Throw away those pages,
that pink littered landscape.
Where is the victory in pity?
Build your mansion of bones
and sorrow so deep it can
not be contained but spills
from the fissure of your heart.
Reach inside stretched
skin whose scars still sting.
There is no poetry
in swallowed pain,
of the temperate voice.
Those words are still born.
No life lives there,
no womb that has birthed
scorn and rage.
Autumn scatters her shades
in daring colors of rust and copper,
asymmetrical patterns splayed
under fledgling wings above
silent fields of late blooming
lilac and the soft blush of peony
left clinging to a bowing trellis.
A flicker of burnished feathers
dripping the weight of dew,
flitting through blowing wheat fields,
the breath of life after summer flew.
Dried stalks abandoned beneath crusty leaves,
their tender stems beaten to the soil
in need of assurance, a promise of rebirth.
kabegami art
Photography by Heart
