By Fire

Strangers gather on the green
choking on smoke and the scent
of seared flesh.
The sun is climbing down
to meet the flames,
As her ashes smolder
 he dampens her gown.
Just  before the winds whip up
she is in Elysian Fields.

 

 

Sandalwood and lavender

When dawn became morning, with the graceful arms of a ballerina, she tossed bread crumbs to finches and towhees gathered at the feeder.  Sadly the flowers lay drenched in nights raindrops, puddled  petals in a potpourri garden.

Wiping dried wax from the  bedside table  she replaced  melting  candles that held too many memories.  Her silk   scarves were cached in a pale blue armoire but for the rose hued tossed across the night lamp.

The hours pass slowly in  a room  blushed with moon-glow,  the  faint scent of sandalwood and  a hint of  dried lavender.

 

Image result for art by Mark Spain

Mark Spain Art

 

confessionals and currency

A Sheer scarf covers the

lamp on the night stand

slivers of moon light slip though

the  French doors

reflecting off walls of burgundy

and  egg shell limbs caught

in loose binds.

She is the red of womanhood

her breasts alert gazelles

guileless eyes are  the shade of currency

her mind has become his confessional

and there is no sin grave enough

 

 

 

Sentry

A young birch sways

like a newborn giraffe

its limbs lean out over

wilted grass and ochre

vines wind a marble sentry

whose eyes never flinch

but guard eternal  while

winter snow stacks on

solitary bones until May

winds stir the crowns of

trees filled with the wails of

wingless birds powerless

to fly on.

 

 

powerless birds.png

 

Windscape

Let me be the  summer sun
who shines for you without expectation.
A  rhythmic  breeze that shapes soft
passages where you travel uncertainty.
Let a  herald of archangels fill your
your heart with unworldly treasure.
I will be  your blood moon,
the swell and pull of tides  that
draw you near.
Ascend with me on a windscape
strung of stars  far from
the world below.

 

Chartreux

Your eyes are Himalayan  blue,

they mutate from sparkling stars to the silver

of a cold planet.

With indifference you defeat me

until I am nothing more than an empty

vessel sailed  away to write love letters

on the wings  of  distant angels.

When your  nights are long

you may find me in the brush of a

homeless Chartreux winding about your

feet or in the sunflower eyes  of a girl

passing by.

 

Vincent Van Gogh

 

 

it’s world poetry day

Poetry and Tea Roses

 

I will always disappoint you.

My words  are no where near roses,

ink stained and caked with clay

though I have scrubbed them bloody.

My lines overflow with sudden downpours

that  inflate into a monsoon

a swell you can not hold back with

the tenderest of sighs.

Still I beg to be saved from obscurity.

I tell lies lovingly,

each verse a litany of devotion

or a buzzed serendipity.

I will fall in love with the sleeved heart of every poet.

Give me a purpose ,  a  wilting tea rose

or the embryo of a pearl washed ashore.

 

World Poetry Day is a time to appreciate and support poets and poetry around the world. It is held on March 21 each year and is an initiative of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).

 

 

 

Offerings

If  I should return to your provenance  I would bring one last offering.  Those words you loved,  that you spoke a thousand times  or wrote just once.  I would place them near,  let those tender verses lie down beside you.

 

Wild wood

A trampled path winds

its way through the

reaching arms of evergreen

to a misty wild wood where my

heart lies down with yours.

White tail deer nibble goldenrod

lift the veil of solitude.

Spring showers and wild flowers

flourish here where

April lives forever.

image © Joan Egert

Common Ground

He doesn’t know why she hurts,  what she is thinking,  he is not adept at examining   those fine points best left in the pit of her belly.   Her  thoughts are dangerous bells,  once rung they can’t be silenced. For him the final line is the closing, for her it is profound sadness.

 

 The heart can fall like a suicide

spiral down like the shade of

midnight deserts

  cold as petals on an icy lake

a flowing grave of dreams

an echo chamber of pain

Let my tongue flirt like

a butterfly among

wildflowers

rather than polish my scars

debride my wounds.

 

 

 

 

Marrakesh

a soft breeze carries  the sweet scent of  cactus blossom,
wet with copper  clay we commune to life again.
 I am the quenching rains of  spring,  the  night-fall shadows saturating your body.  
Nomad  of  the desert,
the taste of Marrakesh on your tongue.