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.

 

 

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  can hear the crunch of  soft sand

the skitter of stones beneath your boots.

Your scent fills my flared nostrils

And your hands of steel butterflies

float over  proud  bones  luring me

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

 

 Pinterest

because I love you

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

build mansions

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.

 

Anais

Frightened by a world she can barely hold on to,
the uncertainty of breath
where safety lives in dreams.
I like to sit in her lap
and play games as
she strokes my fur with
her gentle fingers.
Sometimes I tease and
pull away,
lick myself and pretend
I am too busy.
When the master comes home
he too likes to play,
tossing me into the flower bed
with rough paws.
I feel my bones may break so
she placates him with a smile
while I hide away in the garden
chasing lizards and winged things.
She kneels when  he yanks her hair,
slaps  dewdrops from her face.
When it’s done he washes   rust from his nail beds,
says he’s had a bad day.
I don’t understand the games my people play.

 

 

 

Anais Anais

Photography by Heart

 

 

the lethal dose

There are days  shadows course
through me like a breeze,
pressing deep into my life line and
the air is the scent of a stale satin pillow
where I refuse to lay my head.
I don’t fear  those intrepid ghosts,
I embrace and release them with
failed  gravity or the force that once
held the cupped hand of my lover.
The sky was alive then with every shade of
blue and the clarity of Windsor eyes
where I longed for space.
Desire is a stranger,  a lethal dose,
 encountered beneath a sacred mound.
art by Laura Makabresku

Wolves

In that state between sleep and wake

traversing birth and mortality

there is the faintest hint of earthy candles,

macabre dreams interrupted by sighs

the soft strophe of sonnets and the odd

sensation of strung pearls  falling like

tiny moons through my open palm.

At the boundaries I find you

not your spirit or  rose tinged snow,

but flesh and bone and sinew.

Now  I am sleeping less

roused by the wing beats of boreal Owls

circling   ancient Cypress,

their knife edge talons entwining knotty branches.

When sleep intrudes fitful winds  erupt

feathery curtains, vibrate my hemispheres.

A  swift breeze lifts  me over  the

valley to a  moonlit hillside of sweet lea

where a silver wolf lies down  beside me.

He is the scent of golden meadows and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.

 

Pinterest

 

Coalesce

These fragments  I offer

at times coalesce but  they

are defined by the spaces

between their  lines.

Short and serpentine,

they gently prod your subconcious,

I want to make you comfortable,

but feel the silence.

Please do not interrupt

my breathing or break the

momentum of fragile hands

on your neck and shoulders.

My hair is  a rope ladder  we

climb down  into  a  dream-mind

of iteration where words are

food and wine.

 

 

Butterfly kisses

art by Sarah Riches