In the hushed silence between waves
sighs fill the night as stars come alive
and the breeze is a soft poem.
Nude in the moon light but for drifting
shadows the swirl in your glass keeps
perfect time with far off thunder.
I need to look away from your gun powder eyes
that lethal shot
before the fluttering of a thousand butterflies
I breathe in the circlets of your cigarette and
the honey sweet scent of willing hostages.
As fragile as fireflies we escape to the madness of
our minds where all we have to do is live.
Then, wisdom grew from fruit
and time was a seedling.
All creatures spoke the same,
hymns of bats, the breath of horses.
We were winged and freedom
was etched on the soles of our feet.
Pathways in the earth and sky were
known not charted.
We step naked into the blazing sun
bare ourselves to golden rivers and
awesome tidal thunder.
Dali and The Garden of Eden
art by José Roosevelt, a Brazilian Surrealist, illustrator/painter.
Browsing through souvenirs
I am reminded of you.
The door to the past swings open
releasing sleek eels of memories
where I am nothing or at best
a trembling leaf lost on a autumn breeze.
Do you ever think of me?
See me in constellations pressed against the sky,
hear me in the surge of the tide?
I would seek comfort in the moon but I am
so trivial and he is taken by the stars.
In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake
Hungrily flicking the skin of your thigh
curling around the catch in my throat.
He is god and has named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers.
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy
From my swing
I spot the Monarch
sipping from a nectary,
gently I snare him
by his dew drenched wings.
I wonder if he knows
his fate lies in my hands.
Clutched between my fingers
imagine how his heart pounds.
She soars above the clouds
as silent as the wind
lifted by an updraft
an undetectable realm of light
her receptors focused on a
brocade of pearls,
a shimmer of doves.
Shadowing the weakest
the broken winged
her talons unsheathed
streak the sky cerise.
Gladwell Patterson Art
The world is wintry blue.
Vast and still yet there
is no comfort in the quiet.
The wolf inside me shakes
the snow from her fur,
travels through dark timbered
forests and blue gray mountains.
There are others moonstruck,
dusted with the same shine.
Together we trace a midnight
hover of crows unaware.
I drift on an opalescent breeze
dreams flower in my hair
They shed in heaps of autumn leaves
rust and gold and green
I am traveling far from childhood
where dreams were never welcome
against transparent skies
I cast my tattered shadow
A Mayan goddess taking flight
thrumming ancient wings
art by Karal Bak
I feel you in the pouring rain
violent or soft as a breeze.
A distant star you fade into
the night from which you came.
Wounded hearts are slow to heal
but I have become indifferent to pain.
Sweet gardenias fill my rooms with mortality
decaying petals soaked in secrets
rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr of your sigh.
We are a wasteland, all poetic breath died with us.
I long for the scent of earth infused with deep roots,
the soothing sounds of swaying wind chimes clinging
to the limb of a live oak,
soothing sounds for the twilight hours.
give me your story
minute as a wish on a star
Did you run through blowing
wheat fields your yellow hair flying
those secrets of the heart
give them to me
I am swallowed up longing
When you fall I form a scar
read to me of love and life
those petals closing in the dark
stay lest I fade away.