The Monarch

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.

National Geographic

Falconry

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
thé unaware,
her talons unsheathed
streak the sky cerise.

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Gladwell Patterson Art

Moonlit

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.

wings thrumming

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

goddess in flight

art by Karal Bak

the twilight hours

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.

wheat fields rolling

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.
Featured Image -- 11954

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 charme on your well cut cuff

a link on your 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.