Intentions

I  wonder about your kiss.

Is it the taste of sweet oranges?

Now Spring  hovers at my lips and my

hair is filled with flowers.

For you  a crown of fern and twigs

plucked from  stones of a river.

Wrapped in the arms of a gentle breeze

I fear we will never kiss

still my memory loves you.

 

A Little Night Music…

 

 

 

 

 

*Sophie Zelman: Memory Loves You

the life cycle of a rose

On a thorny stalk

wrapped in leafy veins

heavy with the burden

of viscous dew

for the love of light her

corolla lifts upright

a broad faced still life

anchored to the earth

she tracks the sun across

an unpredictable sky

At dusk she combs the air

with sweetness retreating

at twilight into

pearly pools of the moon.

 

RosePink5

photography by heart

We Had Wings

Then, wisdom grew from fruit

and time was a seedling.

All creatures spoke the same,

hymn of bats, 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 stepped naked into the blazing sun

bared ourselves to golden rivers and

awesome tidal thunder.

A Different Kind of Love

There are times when I can see myself through

your eyes. My pale face so in love,

aching for the caress of a flaxen

haired boy racing through rolling fields.

Suddenly serious your adventurous eyes

sent yearning shivers through me.

I longed for your touch anytime and

kissed you opened mouth without

permission.

I adored your mock anger when you

chased after me and the awkward way

you looked down at your hands.

Soon Autumn threw its shadow on

sprouting wheat, smooth and wet.

Now, I listen to the soft whisper

of his breathing through a half

closed door and know there are

different kinds of love,

wild, ruthless, and unafraid.

Image result for Art by Rob Hefferan

art by Rob Hefferan

God Spun

I am a constellation
pasted to a smear of deep sky or
some god spun leaf drifting
a wintry blue pond.
My tongue turns silvery around
my words, do not take them
for sorrow I have named them
peace.
Do not forget me.
I still need you to carry me
over the pierce of thorns
My hands are good for nothing but
a plea do not forget me
I am still here my hair a tangle
of stars.

index1

a longing

I steer my boat
beneath the lacy moss of
cedar trees where a  lark  drapes
her song,  a spray of flowers, along
the whispering stream.
Beyond the shallows a wooden bridge
where we cast our secrets to the water,
goldenrod along the bank witness the
 breathless embrace of  lovers.
So blue were your eyes those summer days,
 how endlessly deep the longing.

art by Steve Hanks

The Sad Cafe

Autumn leaves have begun to fall.
Late October London is ablaze in hues of orange and purple.
On my bench by the river I daydream that I am an adolescent
reptile escaped from Kafka’s Die Verwanlung, laid back basking in the sun.

The air is layered in heavy cologne but men do not  interest me now.  I am content to casually observe.  To my advantage I know all about them while they know so little about me.  Thinking of you against my wishes, dying a little,  dead all the sweet hope of dreams never realized,  I imagine my earthly body padded, sat beside yours on a grassy knoll
breathing  the scent of lilac and the mossy green River Delta.

In the dark I am nude but for a shadow across my torso.
You are so near and to distract my self from this burning desire
I let my thoughts linger among the lines of Roethke’s “In A Dark Time”.

Years pass and by chance we meet at the sad cafe. I sway in your arms like a fragile birch in an autumn tempest. The halo of my eyes glisten recalling how we gave away what we never really had. We hold each other knowing that love has died and we with it.

 

art by Fabian Perez

 

What I’ve Become

You are my obsession

undulating waves of fixation

that can not be restrained.

What I know of you

I have learned through osmosis

the taste of ozone I  crave

like breathing air.

Beauty only knows to

be beautiful,  send me a

signal through the blackout.

Take  my hand and let

me land in your warmth

for I am shivering.

It is always raining here,

I am nothing but precipitation

slipping down your skin.

 

 

This is an entire album…you might want to stop it at 4:24.

By Fire

She is provocative

at times she is insolent.

Her concept of red

is nowhere near

roses.

Her house is

the hollow of bones

its burning walls stretched

beyond margins.

She has suffered despair

braved the triteness

of platitudes.

She is in search

of kindling

waiting to ignite.

 

The Strangers gather on the green choking on smoke and the scent of seared flesh. The sun is climbing down to meet the flames. As she smolders he dampens her gown.  Just before the wind whips up she is in Elysian fields.