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.
Metaphor and Allegory by Ju-Yu Chen
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.
art by digitalina
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.
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.
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.
borrowed from Pinterest
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.
art by Karol Bak
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
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.
Art by Jill Martin
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.
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.