To Get To You

In this dream my arms
are the branches of trees
and you are my nourishment.
Cut me down to a boat.
My spine is a sturdy keel
my hair a furl of sails in

the dark sky of uncertainty.

A lighthouse is my only lamp
the stars held captive in your hand.
If the sea does not capitulate
red sails cast into a cleft
too wide for me to cross,
I was trying to get to you.

Art from Getty

Frida Kahlo and Nickolas Muray

In Nickolas Muray’s (Hungarian-born American photographer)1939 portrait of painter Frida Kahlo a crown of purple yarn weaves in and out of her thick black hair, flyaways break loose from her braids. Her favorite shawl, a deep magenta rebozo wraps around her shoulders matching the warm flush of her cheeks and her painted nails—glints of red that call attention to her strong hands. She leans comfortably against a wall gazing resolutely if not lovingly at the camera.

nickolasmuray.com

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Muray and Kahlo were at the height of their on-again off-again ten-year relationship when these pictures were taken. Their affair had started in 1931 after Muray was divorced from his second wife and shortly after Kahlo’s marriage to Mexican muralist Diego Rivera. It outlived Muray’s third marriage and Kahlo’s divorce and remarriage to Rivera by one year, ending in 1941. They remained good friends until her death in 1954.

Frida

In the portrait she wears
a coral shawl across her shoulders.
Terracotta lips are set in granite.
Her eyes are the color of the earth,
they scream the anguish of the world.
Her image is etched into tapestry
hung from nails on a farmhouse wall.
She is captured by the hand
of a woman uprising
She is proud
she is Mexico.

poetry by Holly Rene Hunter

Poetry and Tea Roses

I will always disappoint you

my verse is no where near roses

pigment stained and tear smudged

overflowing with sudden downpours

a spiraling monsoon that can

not be held back with the tenderest

sighs.

I tell lies lovingly

each line a litany of devotion

or a buzzed serendipity.

I will fall in love with the sleeved

heart of every poet.

Save me from obscurity, give me a purpose

sugary rose petals or the embryo

of a pearl washed ashore.

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the silence

it’s a great day on the putting green
he’s feeling no responsibility.

Scribbled notes mark the
time and day we wipe the tears away

the dead are silent.
Mourners grieve behind closed doors.
It is not my demise nor yours.
We shake our heads and snuff our cigarettes
dig through our closets for the flag.

whir of days

Come 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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