A sole dove

Deeper than the Mariana Trench
more rare than a conch pearl,
The finest cognac glowing in baroque,
Belle lettrés from the crest of a tree.

 

In my periphery I see you.
My breathing stops to listen
for sounds of our existence.
 

A sole dove swoops into
the crown of a tree
quiescent in a forked bough.
The cardinals fly in,
a brilliant male  and his drab mate,
nature’s biased humor.
Captivated  by his beauty
she watches him fly away.
Without the will to fly alone, the lone dove lingers.

 

metaphors of birds

Communing with birds

I open my empty palms

expecting metaphors to light

like fireflies on my life line.

From the back of my eyes

I can see the river Delta,

sweet green tarpaulin stretched

across the hemisphere and those

deep murky waters that reflect

a silver sky.

Fleeting memories disperse like clouds.

Just before sleep I sink deep

into illusory havens,

escape the boredom of life.

metaphorbirds

Metaphor and Allegory by Ju-Yu Chen

Temple Bell

Your eyes are the crescent

of a silver bay that circles my mind

in the deep mystery of sleep

your voice an invocation of bells

that once rung cannot be undone

in dreams I am your dancer

beckoned at your will

I am a charm on a well cut cuff

a link on a diamond encrusted chain.

ballet

art by digitalina

Hunters

Yesterday I  heard the  hunters deep in the forest,  a shot , a thud, a rebel yell. In the wild there is a dead fawn. Its  grieving Doe  bedded nearby   her  eyes a crust  of grief.  We buried her baby under a tall pine tree, wound a broken bough with garlands of  wildflowers.

Last night in a dream they came.  The stench of their  scorn filled the air.  Running until my bare feet bled, they drew back their swords and pierced my heart,   buried me beneath the skins of dead animals.

This morning a sparrow struck my window, its mark formed a teardrop on the pane.  It’s grave is in the shade of the  Hydrangea.

The garden is  in full bloom,  peonies open wide  and  fruit spurs shoot forth  from the apple tree.  At the surface the earth thrives but  deep in shadows the hunters prey, life as insignificant as the tiny sparrow.

 

 

 

this is dangerous

The professor was always

watching me,  chasing after me,

whispering warnings as though

he were my father.

Still I tore at those wounds,

those itching scabs of words

until I ripped off their secrets.

At night he played piano in a

sleazy bar  singing about revolution

in his ragged jeans smoking weed

and preaching anarchy.

When the soldiers tortured him

he told them about my treason,

writing poetry at night while

he was sleeping.

 

 

 

 

confession

this is not meant for you
though you were there.
I am what I have always been,
an elixir of words.
I will not erode like the sand
or patience if it ever was.
Washed up on a restless shore
I knocked and you opened the door.
Now, like the pearls beneath my feet
I carry no burden save love.

Steve Hanks art

borrowed from Pinterest

awakened

Tiny birds live in my throat,
settle into a warm berth
inert until they are stirred.
Awakened, they beat their wings
against fiery walls,
spill from my Kafkaesque mind
biting the ears with bloody
teeth that slice like barber blades
piercing the heart with surreal talons.
What is sacred I swallow.

Karol-Bak-2

art by Karol Bak

I know it’s too late

to prune but wilted petals

wave provocatively from

dried shrubs here among the

famished flowers and the fading sun is

pleasing on my bare back.

Sticky tongues of desiccated lizards

flick the spidery veins of elongated

roots plucked without mercy from the

pungent earth.

Dew drops glisten on scars and nicked

fingers bleed from circumcised petals

sheathed in thorns.

I know it it is too early but the languishing

garden screams out for structure,

the need to be in control again.

jostle,1056579[1]

Art by Jill Martin

an unwinding

No longer a subtle nuance,
crumbling ashes expose me to the outside world and within.
Only fire will make me whole, where is the flame that burned like the sun?
The amorous teeth aching to bite
a wounded tongue.
Conflicted eyes watch for you,
cast a sword of roses that is
sweet but with thorns and all the
hurt a life can hold.
Still I follow you into our desperate gardens,
give you my drop of blood.

Twitter1

Gaudi

Turning

Feel the  changing seasons,

the tilt of the  Earth’s axis,

the days growing longer as

the night  desires to linger.

Summer seemed boundless,

the sundial casts long shadows.

I will miss  you with your

brand of ripeness,

August’s   lustrous brightness

inciting the senses with fields

afire beneath a summer sky.

Now its wheat is  stacked and

bound  in lonely batches.

Buried beneath autumn leaves

the earth  imbues the darker hues

starless skies of delft blue and

gray swathes  that cloak the dawn.

The ash of burning  locust wood

shrouds the wilting garden with

the musky scent of autumn ghosts

heralding the chill.