In this dream
I am in Paris.
It is just before dawn and
a man waits beneath a
street lamp.
A sad smile that doesn’t
reach his eyes passes
through me.
I am the memory of an
anonymous red rose.
Between lovers , he roams
the lonely streets at night
sinking into eyes as deep
as the river Seine
the kind one might find
just before drowning.
Light in the Night by Paul Militaru (thank you Paul)
From this room
where we meet in light and shadow
where love is made –
and war,
the stars reflect on a peaceful
field of blue iris.
I need to be loved like roses.
Silvery blades of a crescent moon
slice through fields growing wild.
Transparent things on winged feet
flit through silky Zoysia
nipping at life with amorous teeth.
Where are you my love?
Chasing shadows along storm swept streets?
Turbulence has exfoliated the rosy blush
from my cheeks.
If I speak my words may bleed down
our silent walls.
If you change your mind I’ll be
waiting by the front gate
dried flowers in my hair.
The sweltering breath of a summer
squall rushes east to west weaving
through Spanish moss and tender
willows that brush the earth.
discreet voices drift through the
sultry night (Is that possible?).
The storm moves out through the
western horizon, it’s breeze
fresh and clean.
Across the way a single candle casts
shadows on a strangers wall.
In it’s ghostly light a girl dances like
a wild bird to subdued sounds.
Her slender arms take the shape of
starling wings, undulating murmurings,
a melody and she alone drives the night.
I dreamed you beside me
in a small fishing village
our bare feet dangling
from a weathered wall.
Stone soldiers guarding
eternal holding back the
swell of the rushing sea.
From the beacon of an ancient
lighthouse wings of sea birds
shadowed a forlorn sky
only to vanish in a woeful beam.
A shell at my ear I held you,
gathered you in silk netting arms.
Released from my grasp you
slipped away
freed from the catch of dreams.
From the train I can see miles of Pines,
they seem to go on forever.
There’s a golden wolf howling,
chanting to the midnight Gods.
By morning the Pines give way
to Palm trees and screeching Cicadas.
Tonight the stars reveal the belly
of the world from which we come.
What I have left is a photograph.
Tell me night-time dreamer
why you hold so many secrets
in your heart.
When I look into your eyes all I see is star dust.
I sometimes browse old snapshots
or read again a book that you sent me
dedicated in your own hand.
When I miss you most I hold
the keepsake that once
sailed the seas.
I listen to jazz that we loved
or you reciting poetry.
That is the thing with the dead
they leave behind those memories
kisses on cold figurines
messages from an obsolete address
By morning I have renamed us.
Thrumming wings take flight
through crimson wounds
you have christened with your hands,
a forgiveness I can believe in.
I’ve etched your voice in my memory
to not forget the glossy sound
of humming wings when you speak.
In dreams crystal eyes orbit above me,
brilliant satellites,
so that I may sleep free of shadows.
I’ve pared us down to dark and light,
forgotten all I knew of love and when
I try to speak my words catch
at the cache of my throat.
“The Embrace” by Gustav Klimt
Remember the cabin among the trees hidden like rabbits in nests of autumn leaves? Beside the window that looks out on the river there is a writer’s desk with printer’s ink and fresh flowers kissed by the sun in the window sill.
Do you recall the peaceful days we shared among the redwoods that spoke to us? The memory evokes such nostalgia for that ache, that fierce crushing devotion. I left a heart shaped basket of seeds in the arch of a tree for the birds to scatter, then etched our names on its bark. I will always remember you and the cabin by the river, the sultry nights I would dance for you, sheer layers floating to the herringbone floor.
