whir of days

Comes  the days when we

reach back into seas of

pinpoint diamonds where like

globes of fire we spun through

glimmering heavens yielding

only to the pull of hearts.

Now the dew falls from our eyes

Not from  the sky, the tide pulls

outward and mountains lose

their foothold but a new sun

is rising and we are touched by

the tongue of deepening wisdom

and   burning indignation.

 

 

 

 

 

Majestic Birds

I watched him stride down the boardwalk,  sit down beside me to people watch pale tourists glowing  in the sun. My eyes caught the light that shown through his lips and his elegant hands lifting and dropping like majestic birds.  In the long shadows of dusk  there are questions in need of  soft answers, sunsets slipping down the horizon like hands  over sun warmed thighs.  He is a sweet  breeze through a  tropical garden but the sea is enough for me. It’s salty breeze lifting my chin.

 

Art by Steve Hanks

 

 

 

She Doesn’t Speak French

On sleepless nights

I stroll the left bank in black sequined heels

My Eyelids heavy with smoky glitter.

Among the art I find you
your essence pierces my veins

settles in the pool of my heart

 soft lights flicker their last warning in the sad cafe where

like willows we sway to long forgotten love songs

then you are gone a Modigliani reclining never hearing
Je t’aime the only French I know.

 

Image result for art by Mark Spain

Mark Spain Art

 

“Je t’aime, Je t’aime
Comme un fou, comme un soldat
Comme une star de cinéma
Je t’aime, je t’aime
Comme un loup, comme un roi
Comme un homme que je ne suis pas
Tu vois, je t’aime comme ça”

Wanderer

You with the unruly hair
enticing prey with that
forbidden smile.
They bore you but the game is
the thing and the road that you
travel howls with the Blue’s train.
You navigate your map of uncharted
pleasures and who could not love you
for dreaming a bold universe beyond
this pale world?
At night You lie down on a river of stars
among drifting shadows of wild things
knowing
you are not really tame.

Breaking Horses

You are getting closer.
I hear the crunch of sand
and the skitter of stones beneath your
boots. The scent of tanned leather stings
my nostrils and fingers of steel butterflies
inflict fresh flesh wounds.
Your feathered crop gently brushes my shivering
shoulders, it floats over proud bones luring me
to the killing fields.
With no where to hide nothing can save me.
You have always known how to break wild horses.

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Wild Geese and Gilded Rivers – Holly Rene Hunter

Thank you so much Kristiana and FVR.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

This is a day of sun kissed

stones and blustery winds,

of wild geese adorning river banks

their graceful necks and gilded feathers

remind me that I am nothing more than

an  observer  to that enchanted world.

Graceful  limbs of oak reach across

slanted waves to weightless clouds

passing by.

Dipping my fingers into green and amber

circlets I hold my reflection in cupped palms.


Copyright Holly Rene Hunter

Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

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A Winged Bird

I can scarcely bear the splendor of the world.

It’s wonder humbles the wisp that is me.

Minutiae of eyes and speechless tongue

astounded by the promise of a sunrise.

Elegant trees lift their mottled arms

flecked with leaves of gold and green

an ancient cache of living things

To be a winged bearer of no possessions

a flicker of color in the highest tree.

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awakened

birds shelter  in my throat settle softly into a warm berth inert until they are shaken.
Awakened  they beat their wings against fiery walls, tumbling from  a Kafkaesque mind biting ears with teeth  like blades piercing the heart with unsheathed talons.
What is sacred they swallow.

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art by Karol Bak

Resa and the Rock Star – night music

House of Heart

 

 

 

Remember back when you were a rock star

and I was a hippie angel?

How enchanted  we were with  our

heart  and souls bared.

Do you remember now that you are so far

away that night  you came to me

and I came to you and the rest of the world

slipped away?

We held one another,  made love and cried

and vowed to never to speak of how every time

the lights went out you hurried to my side

so tender, coming and then  going.

Young and in love, we named that month Eden.

Do you remember our anguished goodbye

Neither do I.

 

Resa and the Rock Star

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Dedicated to Resa @ https://artgowns.com

 

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the twilight hours

I feel you in the pouring rain

violent or soft as a summer storm.

A distant star you appear only to fade

into the night from which you came.

Decaying gardenias fill my room with mortality

a treacly specter of  memories.

Wounded hearts are slow to heal

I have become indifferent to pain.

We are a wasteland,  all poetic breath died with us.

I long for the scent of earth infused with deep roots

the soothing sounds of chimes swaying from the

limb of a live oak,  soothing sounds for the twilight hours.

Image result for paintings of dying gardenias