Introduction

 

 

 Poetry enriches both the writer and reader.  Modern English verse is dense and at times leaves the ordinary reader gasping for clarity. These verses are not meant to leave one baffled but hopefully affected by their essence, be it romantic, poignant, or comical.

In general, poetry in the western hemisphere is a somewhat overlooked genre, however the hunger for romance appears alive and well and I think that it will remain so for those who enjoy an escape into beauty, for  owners of broken hearts on the mend and the lost longing for renewal, or simply the fundamentally sentimental.  I have gathered some of my poetry and stored it here  for safe-keeping and hopefully for  the enjoyment of all who wish to linger for a while. My words are born of joy or sadness, love and passion. Incidents of life that remain with their owner forever.  I hope you will enjoy this anthology of poetry. 

                                                             ---Holly Rene Hunter

 

 

 

A luminous tapestry of wordplay, delightful and transcendent moments are filled with insight  and beauty.  House of Heart: Poetry for Dreamers is a delightful book of  Verse from a unique and  gifted poet. 

---William Westergren

 

 

                                                             -

 

 

 

 Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness

Pablo Neruda - Carnal Apple...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Currency and confessionals

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sheer  scarves cover the

lamp beside the bed as

daylight slips through

the open French doors

igniting  walls of burgundy.

Her hair fans out on pillows,

eggshell limbs are caught in loose binds.

She is the red of womanhood,

her breasts,  alert gazelles.

Guileless eyes the shade of currency,

her  mind becomes  his confessional

and there is no sin grave enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Petals

 

 

When words were your only nourishment

I fed you calla lilies 

budding in my throat.

From stacked shelves of your

smoky library

you read to me Aristophanes.

Of all poets

we loved him best.

In the final hours

we lingered among wilting flowers

fragile petals falling everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 Crossover 

 

Come across the boundary softly

Hear the sea oats sighing secrets

to the whispering wind.

See the schooners shadow the horizon,

exotic dreams our hearts have seen.

Uncover ancient lands known to our minds.

Sea breezes find us far from the sea.

Cross over colors and countries,

where stars are diamonds and hearts are free

come cross the boundaries.

 

 

 

A soft kiss

 

 

The soft kiss of a tawny sky

caresses her golden shoulders.

Living things wind around her feet

  grateful for her presence.

She whets the stones of  hope

with perpetual anticipation,

 expecting dreams to come alive

before it is too late.

 

 

 

 

 

 art by featurepic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Migrating

 

In January snow birds besiege us.

Drab sparrows hover in lush evergreens.

Wary of  the spirited swallow

they settle for the lowest branch.

Parrots eye me from palm fronds

camophlaged in rubies and emeralds

their sunlit feathers give them away.

A cobweb laden garden traps

morsels for night creatures, a bit of

purple, a slice of stem.

When night falls moonflowers open

pure  petals  to silvery dew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I  Haven't Been Here Before

 

 

I haven’t been here before

Without your hand to guide me

I would be lost.

 

At my threshold the tide consumes the days

shadows fall like lace upon the sand

Come, enter without knocking

you were my lifeline when I drowned

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whiteout

 

 

The wind ravages the woodland,

roots of trees grip the riverbank.

On a frozen branch a snow owl huddles,

Snow flakes crust her large orbs.

Crystalized feathers pull tight against her bones,

 uneasy, she waits  the return of her life-mate. 

 

Our love is like winter

fixed mountains  against a blanket of white.

Tethered to  time

 held captive by circumstance

riverbeds thirsting for rain.

 Ice spikes my minds canvas,

spilling over the edges into ephemeral snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 art by mkdnews

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons

 

 

I Gathered seasoned firewood

for the fireplace to lean into the

flames and melt a heart of ice.

 

I would drench my mind in kindness

if ever there was enough.

 

Don’t waste tender roses on regret,

save them for hearts naïve.

 

“It is well for the heart to be naïve and the mind not to be”

Anatole France

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Orion

 

 

 

When dried flowers

fold into winters coat

Spring longs to extract the light

in shades of supple green

erasing fall's gold’s and brown.

Rolling rivers run  between us

threaded tendrils weave  our

hair and limbs. 

At the end of our  journey

I will find you above the

 snow laden  mountains

Your likeness as brilliant as

as a summer sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Effigy

 

 

She no longer recalls or feels

 

Freedom is not a concept

The curve of her back is wired

with filament and straw fills

the space that  held a heart.

Constructed for crows her limbs

stripped of flesh, her pupils fixed.

 

Her lips are strung with suffering

silent but for labored breath

she no longer speaks because

there are no words

that cut deep enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No One Died

 

Mist fogs the banks

dripping down our borders,

our bodies are currency

spent in lands of wonder.

 Fastened firmly,

our palms roam damp terrain.

Loose diamonds fall from my hand

sparkling like crystal water.

They are precious with the blood of hearts 

though no one died in the quarry.

It is only right that you should have them,

that was your plan from the start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Fire

 

She is provocative,

at times she  is insolent.

Her concept of red

is nowhere near

roses.

Her house is

the hollow of bones

and skin stretched

beyond  margins.

She has given birth

to despair and suffered

the triteness of platitude.

She is  in search

of kindling

waiting to ignite.

image by Ivan Slavinsky 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Satellites

 

 

 

orbit my nights,

specters no longer

inhabit the shadows.

You have created

space where I can

close my eyes without

fear of principles

and articulations are

no longer foreign.

Feel this body

of insecurity,

the pounding of desire.

I am tangled in yearning.

If you follow me I will

not turn away.

Because I love you,

do not come to me.

image by Lu Jainjiu

 

 

 

 moving right along

 

 

Flowers are still in bloom.  Flaxen rays of sunlight ignore the seasons and persist in heating the soft earth. This year El Nino has diverted the few Atlantic hurricanes coming off the Cape Verde islands away from our mainland and with just two weeks left of the hurricane season, a  collective sigh of relief is likely to be  carried on   the cool breeze. It is green and lush here; A paradise of birds and wetlands, splashes of double hibiscus, swathes of crimson and peach. Blankets of  impatiens winding in and out, petals of violet, red, and white crowding  every available space in the landscape. Huge poinsettia trees  reach out long limbs dropping layers of red blossoms as ground cover. I have joined a friend in his secluded courtyard for Cuban coffee and guava pastelittos and small talk.  The peaceful ambience is interrupted when his demeanor mutates to political. He is angry about the influx of Mexicans and Latinos from Central America crossing our borders. I remind him of his own flight from the shores of Havana over the straits via smugglers.  That is different, he tells me, he had relatives here, sponsors. I stroll to the small clay pots lined up on the deck, the peppery smell of  basil and thyme and black earth sting my nostrils. Eventually he joins me,  proposing we go for a swim and walk along the beach.  Beaming at his very welcome suggestion, I have to wonder how many people can take a dip in the sea in mid-November.

art by Maria Soto Robbins

 

Sirius 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sweet Blossoms

With gentle hands
brush amber strands
from my face and
see me.

Kiss sweet blossoms
from my lips,
I’ve saved for you.

There’s need in these eyes,
inside the jade.

You are unsure,
Will you be sorry?
Urgently, you follow.

In shadow we linger;
I will not say no,
because today
I am weak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Heart Throb

 

 

 

 I saw his picture

On a billboard,

leaning against the

"Little Bastard".

That night i dreamed 

I dreamed he would

lay eyes on me

and fall.


I pleaded don't go,

we'll picnic together

on Mulholland, pate

and chardonnay.


Timeless and immortal,

Not one photo stained with tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you are God 

 

 

From the forest a bob white calls your name.

Listen to the sound of you.  Do what you will do.

  Do not feed on the  pain.  If you are God, be the sun, 

but Let the moon have its turn.

Shine  on willows weeping

Stray into the a shivering night,

return with a joyful heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Think of me ....

 

 

I’m the faint scent of lilac The gust of chill in the air.A forget-me-not  trampled,springing upright as you pass.The sweeping wings of an eagle,an orphan at your door.Thoughts gone amiss, never getting it right; pacing feet across your floor.A muffled cry when you grieve,

a feral comforted along your path

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sole Dove

 

 

(for Roby)

 

 

From my periphery I see you

hear you in the café

My breathing stops to listen 

for signs of the space that held us

Rooms are casks replete with stillness

send me  validation., of exits

 

grieving what is not easy

 

A sole dove swooped into the crown of a tree

watching  from a forked bough

 the cardinals flew in

A brilliant male and his drab mate

natures cruel sense of humor

on wide wings they sail to a distant stand

letting go the past

the lone Dove lingers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Echoes of Gods

 

 

Sips of rain permeate the surface,

seeping through rock, carving sandstone,

flowing sideways, etching airspace, filling caves,

fleeing hillsides, escaping to the valley floor.

My name echoes through canyons,

seized by roaring waterfalls

crashing at the feet of Gods.

A sound snared by the breath of souls,

flung into the gentle flow of

sorrow’s spring of tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At it's Finest

 

 

We were drama at its best,

witty, facetious, and ironic;

Conduct deteriorating downward.

Like Taylor and Burton,

  I was the strongest

if not the most temperate.

I fortified my defenses 

behind walls of retreat.

 We begged each others assurances

What made us think we were in control?

 

 

 

 

 

I need to start a fire

 

 

 

I am weary

of grieving the lost.

I need to start a fire,

distinguish love from

a  cunning scheme

 

 

The days are a flinch of the eye

a trembling heartache-

a phantom hidden in plain sight.

I am at the water's edge

and my tears are a healing balm.

I want to rise to the light

but tonight I need to start a fire

I’m as cold as the midnight moon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because I am not Jaded Enough...

 

 

I imagine your balcony doors swung wide

you breathe the humid night air in shadows

that conceal your naked body.

 

Because I miss your soothing belles lettres

and azure eyes

 

I should scream a mock rant but I can’t;

Because I am still in denial.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 When I speak 

 

 

The house I built

rests on  rolling waves,

it’s hallowed bed billows with

sea island breezes.

Stay here  forever in  dreams

 where I am but a visitor.

When I speak  of love

my words slip like rain

into the deep as

I search for you

in the fading  sunset.

 

 

 

Art by Vincent Romero

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 hearts of lovers

 

 

 

 

You are deep as the mariana trench

the finest opus of nightingales

a tropical paradise where

birds sip nectar from blossoms

that unfold for you alone.

Let me leave my mark

roses beneath banks of snow

lovers

 caught in a  mock sinner's lullaby

on a widespread meadow

between skyscrapers

we  surrender

to the  white hot night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lament

 

 

A young birch sways

like a new-born giraffe,

its limbs lean out

over wilted grass

and ochre vines bind

a sightless sentry

whose eyes never flinch

but guard eternal.

The silence of winter

stacks on solitary bones

until May winds stir

the crowns of trees

flush with suspeneded

birds

powerless to fly on.

 

 

 

Muse

 

 

 

In my mind you ebb and flow,

desire glows like rubies

in your ancient soul,

gifting a thousand fears

forlorn despair and buoyant hope.

I trust you inherently.

Stoking the fire in my belly,

you strengthen from a slow simmer

into a raging boil.

On our raft of papier-mâché

we become whole,

desperately thrashing against

the current.

Art by OceanArt

 

 

 

 

 

Spring of 1990

 

 

 

I am a chrysalis

twisting in the breeze,

 fluid bones press

hard against fragile casing.

Swollen wings beat against

the space that holds me.

Somehow I know that I

am meant to struggle.

I don’t hear or see,

nor would I heed

 signs of warning.

My body emerges

a pubescent butterfly

excessively sanguine or

desperately melancholy.

Keen to spread my wings,

filled with zeal for flying,

I flit from flower to flower

sipping nectar in the sunlight

oblivious to life’s repressive

hand hovering above me.

 

 

private art

 

 

 

Hymn of Birds

 

In the hard silence of freedom

my heart bleeds the extract of

flowers until each breath is

a promise suspended from these lips 

A whisper against  skin

that I am more than mountains

or specks of dust or the sever

of flags divisive as tongues.

a wing beat of doves

the gemstone of freedom

as sweet as the chorus of birds.

 

 

Private photography 

 

 

 

The Life Cycle of a Rose

 

 

 

 

She stands erect on a tall stalk

wrapped in veiny leaves

burgeoned with  fat globules

of  viscous dew.

For the love of light

she spreads tender petals

for the broad faced sun

sinking   sinewy roots

into the earth.

Swollen with nectar she

pulls her corolla upright

toward the heavens.

At dusk she combs the air

with sweetness

retreating at night into

the pearly pools of the moon.

 

 

Marwell Rose Garden

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Primitive

 

 

Across a velvet backdrop

stars hang like crystal

softly glowing lanterns

strewn across the heavens

encircling tiny candles

that wax and wane

in the out breath of sighs

Plummeting spectrums

streak through darkness

vanish over mountains

plunge in to the sea

or diffidently fade

against the dark horizon.

 We are

tumbling waves of unrest

harnessing the wind

or still as tide pools

hostage to the moon

come out, ignite,

be the fire.

 

War-Cry of Birds

 

 

Her trill lilts through

the trees,

across the poppy fields,

above the mountains,

through the valley,

it spills from towers

into the dreams

of seekers

bruised from battle,

unwavering  crusaders

 homeless children

afraid to go to sleep.

Her bones are set with courage,

eyes deep wells of wisdom.

She sings for you and me

a song of dignity.

 

 

art by rick nilson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the game

 

 

The jaunty horses are her darlings

with heads held high.

she loves to play the game

win or lose

 

He thrums his fingers on the table

feigning anger though he knows

the kings a mere adornment

for her territory

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Play it Safe

 

 

 

 

 

escaping disapproval

filled with self-doubt

in a brow-beaten world.

Hide in your shell,

it is comfortable there,

close your mind and mouth

seal  flickering eyes,

accept without question

bow to the pressure

swallow fear and anger

suck it deep down

lest you come alive

rage at the system

forcing hard decisions.

You are tired,

you want to rest,

You want to play it safe.

 

 

 

 

art by Janette Tomanek

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Imgarcade

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Token

 

 

Her skin is scarrred from

sharp stones

 

she soothes her wounds

in the waters edge

 

at the shore a man searches for

the colors of the world

 

his eyes shed tears

of peony and purple

 

pointing a finger he motions

toward the ocean

 

look he cries

the dolpins are mating

 

Submissive as the sunset

 she cast her eyes in his direction. 

                                                              

 

 

 

 

 

  Random thoughts

 

Kaleidoscopes are fascinating, their brilliant shapes and hues, just a shift and evolve to jewels entirely new. I hate converting miles to kilometers, do you? Sitting ringside at a kangaroo boxing match would be cool. Falling stars make me cry. I studied Krishna to find myself, I learned that Karma is a bitch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting to Inhale

 

Confined in that  intricate labyrinth,

translucent limbs wore me down.

I dreamed of honey and coconut milk

and transparent eyelids and fingertips

sucked into rose bud lips.

I held you captive in my barriers,

imprisoned in shifting walls.

falling through  nautical twilight

hope cast it’s shadow on us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

laugh lines 

 

 

The morning is filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee forcing me into consciousness. My eyes open to burgundy roses, life-like on flocked wallpaper. Placing my feet on the January floor I sit for a moment at the edge of the bed till the aberrant pounding in my chest slows to a mundane thump. When my eyes adjust to daylight I rise. Passing the antique mirror, my fingers trace  laugh lines . I could refrain from laughter, the thought makes me smile.I pull the sheers aside to let the sun  in. Its rays pace the floor on silent paws.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kame 

 

I filed your shoe box with precious things.

A stone bridge from the flower bed

where you went to be alone.

Lettuce and parsley coaxed you from your shell.

My marionettes filled with blood,

I found you in a puddle.

Syrupy thickness filled the corners of my lips,

wiping my nose with the back of my hand,

you became the rusty shade that filled my nail beds.

I sat you in the sunlight in the window seal,

tiny holes poked in your lid to shield you from war.

You were not the only lost creature that I brought home.

It saddens me that I never gave you a name.

 

 

 

 

Wildflower

 

 

A wildflower grows through a crack

in the pavement where it suffers

rain and snow and boots that walk

past overlooking beauty among debris.

Concrete messages reveal advancement

and retreats, struggles and strength.

Reach for the sky, wildflower,

the world Is beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wildwood

 

 

A trampled path winds

 its way through the

reaching arms of evergreen

to a misty wildwood where my

heart lies down with yours.

White tail deer nibble goldenrod

lifting the veil of solitude.

Spring showers and wild flowers

flourish here

where April lives forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shanty  

They settled in a shack down the dirt road.

She would come on Tuesday to do laundry,

her gold tooth gleaming when she laughed from her belly.

They ate a fine dinner on the porch.

We could barely hear them from the dining room

unless whispers raised themselves in anger.

Sweet tea in bell jars eased the sweltering summer.

I offered him a sack of apples when they left

. He bowed his head in gratitude, grinning at the floorboards.

She said he gambled their money away,

with those little ones needing shoes.

I slipped a dollar in her pocket.

Fall came in brown and gold like skin and teeth.

The scent of smoke filled the air.

They found him swinging from an oak

like an October leaf swaying.

He used to sweep hay from the barn floor.

Thick calluses covered his hands.

They don’t burn anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

juicy fruit

 

When I think of my father’s mother

I can smell the  flour on her apron.

It seems just yesterday I roamed

the rooms of that big house,

inhabited by ancient books.

I once found erotica in the drawer

of an antique bureau.

Indulging the feelings it aroused

I  immersed myself in it. The scent of saffron faded pages

did not deter my interest.

Her most precious possession,

A cedar chest secreted cigarettes,

the deadliest of sins, 

shrewdly stored beneath sweet sticks of juicy fruit gum

I was allotted a stick a day.

A heavy price was paid,

reading aloud from that massive family bible 

while my mind drifted away to pages of erotica.

She watched over me in Summer,

after Mother died.

She only slapped me once, when I kissed that boy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still I can fly

 

I’m an odd bird,

clumsy and askew

with but one wing to guide me.

Still I can fly 

rustling leaves on my branch

shake my foothold.

I am sightless here in the shadows.

I would sweep swaths of light

across the dark but my

art has forsaken me.

I’ll fly away chiming like a bell

when the dawn ignites the sky.

I have a voice, can you hear me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Courage 

 

is a leopard poised to pounce 

rushing forward without hesitation 

It is looking the greatest fear in the eye,

stepping across

the line you dare not cross

 

lungs bursting, thoughts racing,

adrenalin heart pounding;

entering the arena of dread,

defending the defenseless,

facing the enemy, confronting the bully,

challenging the antagonist,

fighting the battle until it is done

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time Passing

 

 

She had an eye for art and fine tapestry.

She adored animals,

allowing my puppy to sleep with me.

The pigments of her head scarves were dazzling;

silver, bronze,and crystalline

I never imagined an omen 

a poem she called “Time passages”

or ‘time passes”.

it was long ago and I was just a child.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Thing Is

 

 

I sometimes browse old snapshots

or read over once again  a book that you sent me

dedicated in your own hand.

When I miss you most I hold

the keepsake that once

sailed the seas.

I listen to jazz  that we loved

or you reciting poetry.

That is the thing with the dead

they leave behind those memories

kisses on cold figurines

 messages from an obsolete address. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elegy


Such a strange name for a Welshman

his mother called him Carlos

Perhaps she loved Spain

So fortunate is she

not to see the light go out


 go gentle, as gentle as can be.



I must question Dylan

the nature of death he's seen.

"Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light"*

"I was a sword in fist

I was a shield in battle

I was a string on a harp...*

go gentle as can be.

* Dylan Thomas

**Cad Goddeu: Battle of the Trees

 

 

lost in translation

 

 

This  summer I will

indulge in originality

and lose myself in

anarchy.

Lie down in the

shadow of skyscrapers

on a metaphor of meadows

spread out  on clouds

of Aristophanes.

 

In hedonistic adventures

I will risk the wrath of gods

while between breaths

in your day-dreaming tongue

you translate “the Song of Songs”

for me.

 
 
 
 

 

Confession
 
 
You are dark as the brown liquid that you love more than me. 
Still, I feel such pride in you, the wonder of your words, so imperfectly perfect.
I swallow guilt in the quietness of my thoughts.
It is good I do not see your eyes; confession will not stop this love nor redeem me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Song
 

The sun has lost it’s domain

snow birds shroud its rays.

A handful of larks quiver

on a bare branch,

tiny in their frozen feathers

they could fit into

the palm of a hand.

 

Their song so fragile,

suspended in frozen breath,

they sing for the sight

of an outstretched hand

clinging to a red-tailed kite,

racing through sunflower faces

 

 

 

 

 

Inertia

 

 

 

I was not meant to

toil the thickness of prose

or suffer the madness

of time frames.

Wisteria climbing a wall

in good time is alluring.

Pooling droplets of rain

in folded leaves of

broad faced  hollyhock,

tracking the sun or

dormant buds sleeping

beneath winters

hard earth awaiting

the gesture of a nightingale’s

signal seems appealing.

In good time passers-by

might find beauty in me

a reflection of nature.

 

 

 

 

In The Company of Angels

 

My eyes are fixed on an echelon of

snow birds winging southward,

A mere heartbeat ahead of winter’s blast.

They seek refuge in palm fronds and

honey-dripping hibiscus.

My sea-walls are under siege,

melting languor opens my borders.

In the company of angels I offer no resistance. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the mission

Through the rustling curtains
a damp breeze fills the room.
Beyond the dusty panes
the reflection of a woman
weeding her flower bed in the rain.

Undaunted by the cold

chafed hands attend her mission
resolutely she cares for fragile

blooms of red and gold.

Listening for the thunder
to break the sound of silence,
she awaits a flash of lightning
to waken her lifeless world.

 

 

 

 

 

Karlsbad

 

 

n secluded thoughts you are standing on a bridge wearing faded jeans.

A jacket of hunter green hangs loosely over a sweat shirt that reads“universität Ludwig”.

A paper bag is in your hand and your eyes are glazed over,

going to or coming from a trip. You don’t bother with declarations.

Your memory stacks in layers like bone and skin.

Words drip like raindrops between open mouth kisses.

I keep the memories, nothing is left behind,

they stream through my mind dripping from my eyes.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

Absolution

I choose a dense dress
that covers my ankles.
Forcing down my budding breasts
puts the pastor at ease.


In my mind I am the virgin Mary,
with ribbons, I tie back red-
the root of all evil.
Beneath the river
dark water steals
my breath-
Dying here;
awaiting rebirth.


Yet, the cleansing doesn’t come.
Soaked and solemn in the sun,
I loosen wet ribbons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In The End

 

She has given her all,

left with bruises and bones

protruding through her paper skin.

She has given all she has

with nothing left but a raging volcano

that screams out secrets that she meant to keep.

Longing for shelter, she is sinking into mire.

November, deliver her from winter’s cold and the indignity of need.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

confession

 

I hand out confessions like candy. Creating chimera for fun. Secreted fishnet and bustier,  hanging on a hook behind a door. Flying to Paris in a trench coat sans luggage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the comet 

 

 

It was late in the year,

I recall the strung lights along the city streets

loose gemstones encircling palm trees.

 

I was learning quickly about sickness and death

and that it is  impolite to speak of disease.

 

At times I conversed with my dog.

His sad eyes bestowed empathy.

Honorably, he  kept our talks confidential.

To divert my reality, I received a pink scooter,

I remember the helmet was too big.

 

There were nights when he would read to her.

by  the dim light of her  fading comet.

 

 

 

 

The Monarch

 

 

From my swing

I spot the Monarch

sipping from a nectary,

gently I snare him

by his dew drenched wings.

Does he know his fate

lies in my hand?

Clutched between my fingers

imagine how his heart must pound.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trunk

In my attic is a dusty  gray military trunk holding memories and useless paraphernalia. It would cross the seas before me, wait for me to happen upon it.

I was excited when I spotted the time capsule. I searched until I found the rusty little key that fit its dead bolt. Struggling with it for a while, I managed to Pull the heavy lid up to be greeted by the scent of eighteen years of mold and mildew.

My physical body departed and looked down on me from beams above, watching as my hands picked gingerly Through items of interest placed in the grey tomb long ago.

A year book filled with signatures, promises to not forget, to stay sweet. Postcards from far away countries, some with messages to friends, mostly blank. The arc de triomphe, the Louvre, and the Grande Place in Brussels. Pictures of a pregnant girl on a bus bench,  tired and miserable, the Eiffel Tower In her background. That same girl hanging wet clothes in a different attic, her hand on her belly, smiling as though she owned the world.

Beneath German beer steins with pewter lids and handles, wrapped neatly in musty German newspaper, lay a yellowed envelope. Inside was a rumpled marriage license, folded neatly beneath it, a divorce decree. Memories flooded anshe stood in the waterfall, tears mingling with its white foam. Placing the items into their rightful places her innocent eyes a blank canvas. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Black Bear

Riding the open road on my bike is freedom personified. The solidarity and camaraderie among our band of bikers is a relationship like no other. The danger of damage and loss is real and yet some reasoning defect compels us to take that risk understood only by those afflicted. Following processions for fallen comrades we weep at grave sites as though some natural course has taken place. We then ride on in their honour.

The Black Bear Byway is an extraordinary ride. Its sixty miles of highway through the vast Ocala National Forest is a breath taking experience by any means and particularly on motorcycle. Wildlife flourishes here. Scrub-jays and woodpecker are plentiful. Spotting deer , fox, and countless endangered species a joy. The native flora is a sensory delight. The area is home to the largest population of Black Bear in the United States. Unfortunately they are often found as road kill along this highway. The peril of riding here on motorcycle is not lost on us.

The fragrance of pine surrounds us as we travel. Generally pleasing, the strong scent is at times overwhelming to the senses. The highway lies in shade and chilly November breeze makes for a pleasant ride. Leathers are the rule today as we tour in cadence. Oncoming riders reach an open hand to us, a sign of brotherhood among bikers, reaching out and sharing an experience.

The sunset to our west is splendid. Lilac sky fades to soft blue, resting on blazing orange slices at the horizon. Vibrant flashes of crimson flicker through the pines as though the forest has been set ablaze. This glorious sight reminds us that night is approaching and only the reckless would ride here on two wheels after dark. Reluctantly we depart this exotic habitat. We look forward to riding this extraordinary region again, to renew our spirits in nature’s paradise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Neon Window
 
 

 my eyes have lost

their sheen...

I am a dead thing.

They whisper and make gestures,

leering punks vie for my attention.

My cigarette, a distraction as

I search among the faces for you.

The traffic is slow,

a few tourists,

mostly looking, not buying.

hard times have taken its toll on carnality.

The snapshot stirs my anger,

there is rent to consider.

I dig in my pocket for your note.

Liar…

Men call all the shots.

Tears well up but remain fixed.

I hate you.

Smiling sweet at the young fellow;

don’t go…come on.

The red lights dim, head lowered

he follows.

I place the euros in my pocket with your note.

Do you like Amsterdam?

Swallowing hard he says I am beautiful.

The light reflects off my face

and burns my eyes.

I fondle the pay in my pocket.

The night is not a total waste.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In A Dark Room

It was my eighth birthday.
She did not come to the table.
I carried cake to her room on a paper plate.
Her beloved tapestry hung heavy
shutting out the light.
She was accustomed to the dark.

I didn’t sit with her those days,
her pain frightened me.
My small shoulders needed her touch
but I could not endure her suffering.
My smile would lift the corners of her lips,
she would then drift away.

In the photograph I am wearing a new dress.
I adored its lacy bodice and satin sash.
He picked it out himself. Later, my grown up eyes
dissolved in the pain of his etched face,
our photo with an empty space,
dying in a darkened room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Park

 

(short story) 

 

 

 

I follow him for some time, fascinated by his shabby sweater, cheap shoes, expensive attaché. At the park he sits down  on a bench, opened  his  brief case and pulled out a sandwich and apple. I sit down next to him, so obvious, I felt sick. He noticed me and offered his apple. I ate it though I was not hungry.  I fought the urge to arrange his unkempt hair.  I had the feeling he knew.  Eventually, he told  me he has not worked in three months. I continued to eat the apple, feeling a bit nauseous.  He said his wife does not know.. He borrowed money unbeknownst to her. I felt miserable, like some kind of prying bitch.  I tell him  I have to go, I’m late for...something. He asks me to come back again. I tell him I can’t,  but then agree to meet him the next day, saying I will bring lunch.I dreamt of him that night.  Waking in a cold  sweat,  I swear and get up for water. Back in bed , I close my eyes, masturbate and cry.At noon the next day I saw him across from my office. I threw my lunch in the trash and strolled over to the park.Part IISince our death I haven't been the same. I took the Xanax but still feel crazy.He is at a loss.  Doing all he can to bring me back,  feeling I may dissipate like card ice. I am lifeless as any corpse when he touches me.

Speaking mainly of his interests he lingers at my ear. His eyes  plead for clues to raise me from the dead.  How angry he would be if he knew of the man in the park.  Revealing intimacies I would never share with anyone, without shame. I must be ashamed; my face feels hot when I think of him.Part III

The earth is barren now that winter has settled in, it will not drift on. Spring has shunned the park of sorrow.  The man tugs at his overcoat, it’s rough threads guard his lifeless heart.His sun reflects on hair like autumn and sets on eyes of green. Had he refused her love, another's she would be.He could accept his empty longing if once again she breathed.

 
 
 

 

 

 

Carswell Pinkerton

 

At twenty two I landed what I felt was the best job any girl could fall into. Working for the power company, I could wear jeans and t- shirts out in the hot Georgia sun and pass out orders to the macho linemen stringing electricity along Fitzgerald. I enjoyed one fellow in particular, Carswell Pinkerton.

Everyone called him CP. I called him glass jaw because be wanted most to box but was knocked cold in the few matches he had fought so far. This morning we talked and I could smell faint liquor on his breath. He swatted my ass as I walked off, which I felt was out of order but I let him get away with it. I went back to my station for water but soon heard the men gathering and a commotion from the direction of the installation area, I ran that way like every one else.

Hanging between the earth and sky was CP, attached by his belt to an electrical wire strung from the pole he had been working on. They brought him down by ladder and laid him on the dirt. As the only woman there, I felt I should hold him and lifted his head onto my lap, nearly gagging from the smell of smoldering flesh. Stripped bare, They covered him with an old tattered flag that was lying in the back of a truck. I rocked him gently and told him it wasn’t bad but even his hair smelled of smoke and I knew I was talking to myself and a dead boy.

Later that day they asked me to go with the Super and a chaplain to his home to tell his mother what had happened. Reluctantly, I agreed and we drove to an old farmhouse sitting on top of a small hill. They told the poor woman about her boy and she fell upon me with such force my knees buckled. The chaplain gave her an injection of consolation and laid her on the sofa.

I walked out the screen door and waited by the car. An old yellow dog lopped up and I petted him, knowing it was Katy , the Lab CP spoke of with such tenderness. My eyes felt like dust that might blow away in the mild summer breeze. Tears begin to well in the corners and spread out, misting the parched orbs and running down my cheeks. I sobbed until no moisture was left.  Until now, I never spoke of CP again.

 

in memory of Carswell Pinketon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Migrant 

Moving from place to place, hoping for a day’s wages we traveled by train from the north to west Texas to escape the cold. Maria gave birth to our boy on the cold floor of the box car. We are not Hoboes, we never seem to be homeward bound.

We share shacks alongside orange fields in the west. The smell of citrus wafts the air from rotting soil where the over- ripe fruit falls. So quiet at times in the fields, the only sound is the thud of putrid fruit falling to the ground.

Sharing one room, the children’s pallet behind curtained corners, they listen to the sound of copulation. Life goes on. Perhaps someday they will have a door to close.

Waking before dawn, the men and abled bodied women wait in the chilly air for the grove owner to collect us. Today I brought my gloves, I felt I would be chosen. Yesterday I went home empty handed. It frightened me to see her, skin so thin it barely covered her brittle bones. Trying hard to nurse the hungry baby, her milk drying up with the rest of her. Should she die , I worry for myself. Stuck with the child, well, I know I can’t do it.

This morning her desperate eyes stare into mine. I look away from the hunger and fear. She knows if she dies I will  leave the child behind. I slip my stolen blade into my boot. The cold steel imprinting my ankle. I take the knife with me today. Today I must do something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Samaritan

 

(scary fare)

It’s lonely along the highway. I’m alone and afraid, my car abandon down the road a ways.
My eyes burn from the sun and wind-swept sand. My feet are raw with blisters, my shoes are in my hands.
My white skirt is dirty from clouds of dust blowing, dirt whipping at my legs from the embankment.
I pull up my hem, tuck it into my waist band, easier to get where I am going.
I am desperate for help but I fear that someone will come along. The world is hard to trust but he pulls over and I rush to his door.

My fear is palpable as he stares me up and down. I search his eyes for motive. He will gladly give me a ride, I need just get inside. Already at his door handle, I pull back my hand and lie, “ I have phoned a friend who is coming for me”. I hold my phone out, battery dead, but he doesn’t know that. He leaves, and I hang back in misery until I spot a small store ahead of me.


The following morning, trouble forgotten, browsing the news over tea, my heart pounds and It’s hard to breathe.
Her body was found beneath some trees, near a barren road rarely used. Her life taken brutally,
a dead cell phone lying nearby and in her hands, her shoes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sweetness of Dark

On this dock, streams of
sweat slide down my neck,
between my breasts, a rivulet.

A taste of salt when my
tongue flicks my lips.
The slap of sea on stone walls,
mist my eyes, washing
colours down my face.

Figments scurry into caves of
memory like escaping hermit crabs.
Sea horses trapped in murky
kelp cry for help, choking bubbles
of last breaths.

This creaking dock, freedom floating off
Toward that milky moon into the sweetness of dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eyes of Marble Angels

Press your pen against your temple.
Poised above the pages,
hang your heart out with the Gods,
meadow larks, mountains, and seas.
Give birth to ruins existing inside
where the deepest and darkest hide.

Let the falls flood your fears and foam the
roman fountains into eyes of marble angels.
Across the turquoise ocean beneath your golden palm.
Wipe grains of sand from your vinho verde eyes.
Place your pen into indigo and rest

.

 

 

 

 

The Deep Well

 

a short tale

 

 

Pale with emerald eyes, hair the color of rusty nails, Norma was a beautiful girl. Her father, Tom, a farmer with six kids escaped the orphanage at age twelve by swimming a moat on a winter's night with his baby brother hanging from his shoulders like a sack of stones. Her mother, Ada, traditional and resolute, would not abandon her Scottish Gaelic.

Tom's father succumbed to a massive brain hemorrhage inflicted in a barroom brawl over a woman. He lingered for three days but lost the fight. The womanizer left Tom's mother with five children and no resources and she was forced to take her life by embracing a fiery pot belly stove, the only heat she and the poor little ones had in that dead of winter. She held on till she could no longer feel the sear and her desiccated soul passed over. With no one to care for the little ones there was no choice but to place them in the County's Orphanage where Tom soon swam off with his little brother in the dead of night.

Tom and Ada met when he was barely nineteen and trying hard to make his way. A thief stole the pigs he had purchased with money scraped up and sold them to Ada's father. Upon learning the pigs rightfully belonged to the young man, being a Christian, he turned the pigs directly over to their rightful owner. Tom was a fine looking boy. Ada was tall and some would say plain. She alone helped the young man round up his pigs and in the process fell in love with the handsome lad. They married and built a home with their own hands in the middle of three hundred acres bestowed on them by Ada's father.

Norma was the second of their children. She was stunning but fragile. Too delicate to work in the fields, but all the siblings worked, right alongside the field hands, tobacco and cotton their life blood.

Ada spent many nights worrying over the girl, melancholia they called it. Norma could have her pick of young men from the countryside but laid eyes on the beautiful welsh fellow and went straight up to him and told him she wanted him for her boyfriend, "Dw i'n dy garu di", the only welsh she knew. Straightforward her manner and he was hers for the taking.

I would love to go forward and say they lived a happy life but they did not. They settled the old Whitfield place, a farmhouse that the young Welshman acquired rent-free in exchange for working the small farm. Mr. Whitfield killed himself by jumping into the deep well dug in the middle of the dirt yard, covered now by boards as though it no longer existed. Norma begged to leave the place but the young provider's plan was to save and deliver them all from this hard life. Their youth and passion could not shield them from the adversity of the great depression.

So upset the girl became that Ada once slapped her face and told her she would be committed to some dreadful institution if she did not straighten up. She sat on the porch rocking her baby, that was when she saw him...God, coming down from the heavens. The clouds opened up and he rode on horseback, thundering out of the sky towards them. She grabbed her baby up and fled inside, falling onto the old bed, the little one beneath her.

She was not good after that and would witness unimaginable sights. The Welshman was afraid to leave her and many times, even during the most formidable weather, bundled her and the child and delivered them to Ada who could sometimes calm her. They would whisper when she slept, "she will get better".

It was the worst feeling you could imagine, seeing those rotten boards strewn out on the ground. He prayed it wasn't so... That something else could be. He threw his satchel down and ran there but his legs would not hold him and he fell to his knees. He cried out to them but no sound came, not a chirping bird, a rustling leaf, nor even a whisper of a breeze. The man's wails echoed about the yard, through the empty house and out into the farmland. The only sound finally heard was the whooshing of a frightened flock of geese.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sacrifices

The flagstaff is no longer
visible from my door.
I have left my cul-de-sac
and the high flying banner
of black and gold that hangs
in remembrance of the missing.

I only imagine the
The sorrow of those
who will not lay eyes
on their young soldier,
wasted in futile wars of old men.

In compensation
A small flag lies at the feet
of the fallen.

"We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arlington

 

 

As far as the eye can see,

dotted with cracked teeth that jut through the verdure

adorning the slopes that vanish over the horizon.

Twigs caught in twine of wrought iron arms rustle in the forlorn zephyr,

trapping leaves on bronze plate that designate where valor lies.

Worn flags, stiff with age, quiver like hearts of caged doves.

 

Red poppies in the common droop, overcome by the scent of copper

that fills the air over fields  of treasure that flourish forever,   far as the eye and beyond.

 

 

in memory of my father-in-law Posted on July 9, 2015 

 

The small boy clings

to his father’s hand

who searches for

someone who speaks

his native tongue.

In school they call him

ragazzi Nazi,

he does not look up

but inside he hurts. 

Once he wore Lederhosen to school,

later he asked his Dad to burn them.

He misses his grandmother and

the scent of ginger and baked apples.

He is smart  and learns the way early.

Work hard and do not complain.

He  raises his children to be

proud and strong but tonight

they are tired standing vigil.

The sterile room is filled with

the sound of labored breathing

until silence replaces laughter,

wisdom,  and a loving heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have I Missed My Stop?


At times I feel I have boarded the wrong train,
familiar scenes scream past
Barrelling on I listen for my destination


once while Sleeping we switched tracks
  I wandered for the longest time in
search of higher ground.
A few grabbed my coat to lift me.
 It was comforting to be carried.
my belongings became too heavy
for them to bear.

Baggage travels with me
within reach and never out of sight.
I will remain on this train, it suits me,
 I am  comforted by your company.
If you stay here beside me my heart

may ease it's pounding
but cargo travels with me and

always will

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did it Hurt You?

what were you thinking?
Dying t like that.
Who would I have to blame for my failures?
My bad decisions?
  May I  use you to
ease the guilt of my misguided behavior.
  blame you for
the unhappiness in  life?

You were not perfect,
Did you give  any thought to me,
You did not have the courtesy to get well.
You left me in the care of that man who did his best,
sadly lacking the skills to teach life to a young girl.

There was Grandmama, who taught me well that
the touch of a boy would bring haji.
Shame, on the family, and she would have to care for it.

Though I fought mightily, that young man kissed me hard,
and I bled when he ran his hand up my dress.
I feared I would need to kill myself.
Finally, to my relief, I found no shame would be
delivered to us this time.

He took you to your homeland in an urn.
I have no place to mourn.
That is your fault too.
Could you not leave me your remains?

Surely you are to blame for any pain
that I may suffer.
So, here is your elegy.
I need someone to blame.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Bowl

The Cupboards were placed out of reach

of small hands.
Cookies are kept there and other things grand.

Most precious, embellished with pink cherry blossoms
a bowl of wood filled with rice  flour.

Holding it to her belly she stirs its contents.
The air is misted with floating rice flakes. 
 
“Grandmamma” I call, but she doesn’t hear.
  Left  with her faded dreams
her brims overflow like the  rice flour in the bowl
  that she has  seasoned with melancholy.

 

 

 

 

Join Me

From my disordered lobes
Positive negative synapsys

hearten and dishearten. 
 
in my mania
I hear Freud repeating
" psy chai a tree."

We know he is not there.

 do not  join me
in my delusions
 
Wait until  darkness falls,
 It is then  I will

need you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Claire de Lune

 

 

 

A Nightingale  sings   Clair de Lune

from  an oak where the moon

reflects shy smiles,  unsure if

it should seek her out.

Its beams play hide and seek in

the brush of a tree,

skipping from leaves to grassy weeds

where wildflowers close their

portico to hummingbirds

dipping in and out,

they flit away into the night.

A  spectator view

deepens to shades of sighs.

On silent paws an old black dog

lies down  without a sound

and licks her hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sound

 

 

Hear the sound of wrath hurling

dogma at the branding sun.

  Detonated metal shards 

missiles of flame disrupt

astonished heavens.

Listen to the shallow breathing

of rose tinged angels gasping

with the choke of  man

until all is lost.

plummeting like rubble beneath

the asphysiating doctrine

smothering the world

like  blood stained tapestry

falling from the gaping sky 

and all that is left it to watch

all that is left is to wait

in red rivers of carnage

fortunes built on the bones

of humity.

 

 

Driven by  hatred

empowered by arrogance

inspired by false knowledge

it flows from the desert

over the oceans,

across the land.

The slice of the blade,

red rivers of carnage,

fortunes built  on

the bones of humanity.

 

 

 

 

 waging 

 

 

Driven by  hatred

empowered by arrogance

inspired by false knowledge

it flows from the desert

over the oceans,

across the land.

The slice of the blade,

red rivers of carnage,

fortunes built  on

the bones of humanity.

 

 

 

waxing summer 

 

 

Like clockwork,

the  rains come late

in the Summer day.

Yogurt clouds of vanilla

slip to overripe blueberry.

The  rough winds whip

debris into whirling dervishes

that spin up and out through

the tall trees where birds

weave like wicker,

shiny beads slipping from

their waxy feathers onto the

soggy leaves.

Higher in the blowing

crown squirrels escape

to  dreys of durable rattan

and knitted fur to await

the signal of inky shadows

that  venture  into

mottled rays dancing

in puddles and glistening blades

of grass that spring erect

from the wet potpourri of  earth.

 

Summer Garden from Startribune

 

 

 

 

 

I need to start a fire 

 

 

I  cherish every beat,

every emotion that is life.

I have grown weary of vigilance and grieving the lost.

I need to start a fire,

distinguish truth from

a  cunning scheme.

The days are a flinch of the eye

and tears are a healing balm.

I want to rise to the light

but tonight I need to start a fire

I’m as cold as the midnight moon.

 

 

 

 

 

Ragazzi

 

The small boy clings

to his father’s hand

who searches for

someone who speaks

his native tongue.

In school they call him

ragazzi Nazi,

he does not look up

but inside he hurts. 

Once he wore Lederhosen to school,

later he asked his Dad to burn them.

He misses his grandmother and

the scent of ginger and baked apples.

He is smart  and learns the way early.

Work hard and do not complain.

He  raises his children to be

proud and strong but tonight

they are tired standing vigil.

The sterile room is filled with

the sound of labored breathing

until silence replaces laughter,

wisdom,  and a loving heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

singing to birds 

 

 

Leaning into dreams,

 free falling adventure,

anarchistic hummingbirds

hover in mid-air.

Tiny ballerina’s too

light to bear their shadow

vibrate the air with

the laughter of children

so I open  my heart

like  raining down clouds.

 

 

 

 

 

art: Dawn Chorus by bellavista

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the tall trees where birds

weave like wicker,

shiny beads slipping from

their waxy feathers onto the

soggy leaves.

Higher in the blowing

crown squirrels escape

to  dreys of durable rattan

 

 

 

 

 

"summer garden" from startribune

 

Beneath green water 

below lotus blossoms

kissing gourami

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

beneath dewy moss

guarding the riverbank

old stone soldiers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

needing to wring

they remain motionless

delicate as doves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Splendor

 

 

  

In December snow birds besiege us,

a heartbeat ahead of winter’s blast.

Tiny wrens settle the bare branches

yielding lush crowns to the larks.

 

Parrots eye me from palm fronds,

concealed in green and gold

the glint of sun off their feathers

reveal them every time.

 

Walls of  stone soldiers

hold back the ocean swells,

capricious sea gulls swoop

rays that pierce the waves.

 

Looking out past the sea foam

splendor catches in my throat

amethyst clouds sweep in,

bleeding  shades of a sunset.

 

 

 

“Sunset” by Nikolay Yaroshenko

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A Whimsy

 

I’d love to be a summer breeze

that swirls along the shore,

kicking up sand till whimsy

 

flings me beneath the wings of

gulls that trip for free,

defying gravity. Oh, it is insanity!

I’d drop them at white-capped waves

 

that soak the caves of Crabs with

side-ways eyes ,

escaping opportunity.

 

I’ll blast my strongest overhead,

stack pink pearls and tan shells,

 

fine shelter for this living thing.

 

When it’s done I’ll blow through trees

where pink flamingos  sleep on one leg.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Georgette

 

We stepped over cracks

of terra-cotta paths

leading to the pears.

Still weak from sleep

ginger coated feet drifted

through heather to the trees.

 

I hear you call  to me

across the queues,

breaking the stillness,

sending startled field mice scurrying,

energizing the air with

clusters of roused birds.

 

We sunk our teeth into pungent fruit

savoring juices streaming our faces.

Dissolving into laughter you

wiped my cheek with

the damp hem of your gown.

 

I recall your smile and

the warmth of the sun

on a Tuscan morning

when we hugged goodbye

to the carefree days of summer. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the huntress

 

Sprinkling a handful of sand into a cookie tin

I imagine this is the Kalahari,

not the shore of a beach.

escaping the sun,

I lie beneath an umbrella tree

rather than a palm.

peacefully he soaks up the warmth.

I smile at the king who sleeps

while his woman hunts.

 

 

 

   Shoot the Moon

 

Route 66 called out across the desert.

Tossing rain gear into saddle bags

she roared off on the flame of a comet

above the moon she littered

the heavens with her belongings

shrewdly saving the best for Reno.

 

 

 

 

                                                online picture of a painting in the Route 66 museum

                                                                             in Clinton, Ohio
 

 

 

 

 

 

SoBe 

Her skirt whipped by the ocean breeze, she moves among the chaos.

cars  cough and  shudder,

  pedals to the floor

 weaving in and out,

dodging vengeful lovers.

Young girls stroll the walkway,

 wide-eyed at shop windows

promises of  glitter nails 

and  eyes that sparkle. 

Machismo eyes her up and down,

hissing mami,

the tourist gaze upward

tripping over trash

  

 

 

 

Miccosukee

 

High cheekbones rise up toward the sky.

Her  hair is  streaked with silver and shines like moonlight.

She wears yellow and gold with panels of brown

on a skirt that sweeps the ground when she moves.

Her  skin is wet clay glimmering, her eyes the color of the world.

She tells me about her people,

how things have remained the same, of hours spent crafting

their treasures in huts on the Tamiami Trail.

She studies my face intently selecting gems that will bring  good fortune;

teardrops of jade and silver.

Placing my payment in her callused hand,

I own her earrings and gems of wisdom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sweet Blossoms

 

 

With gentle hands brush

amber strands from my face and see me.

Kiss sweet blossoms from my lips,

I’ve saved for you.

There’s need in these eyes,

 

You are unsure, Will you be sorry?

Urgently, you follow.

In the shadows we linger,

do not not say no

 today I am weak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

December In MoTown

The band rocks the atrium.

It's December in Motown.

Dirty boot prints stain the sidewalk

like the rest, I step inside them.

I hit the boulevard freezing,

dreaming of tanned bodies,

Mimosa sipped in tiki huts

and you beside me.

Dreams won't land us in paradise

we seek temporary asyllum,

pulling our jackets close

we slip inside the noise

to dance the chill away.

 

The Wild

 

 

 

The small lake shimmers in the light,

autumn rustles beneath

the feet of a fawn

leaning forward her pink tongue

curls backward

spattering the sweetness of life

into her nose and eyes.

Spotted ears pull sideways,

heeding the sigh of the forest

the breath of a breeze

the kiss of sunlight

transforming faded green to gilded gold.

Beyond the edge of the wood

spring collides with fall

in  tender places

of the wild

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brazil

Her palette shines
 
Emerald and Jade

Vibrant shades of Brazil

water colors left to dry

she day-dreams under

turquoise skies.

Crimson and cobalt

psychedelic pleasures

bleeding swaths of gold

across her heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There's a Moon there

Some nights I walk down to the sea side like this.

Looking out, I wonder, how far to Bimini.

There is a moon there.

From your frozen window you gaze upon

the same moon and stars.

They shine on you and you shine too.

The Bimini moon winks, but looks away,

searching for hearts anew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moselle River Valley

She lives on Gutenberg Strasse;
Up a flight of stairs that
she polishes every day.

She must remove her
slippers, the Frau works so hard and
takes such pride. She taught the young girl to
polish its brass banister.

He wakes her when he comes home,
parking parallel on the edge of
the cobblestone street.
She likes the scent of his uniform,
the odor of gun metal.

She has no responsibilities.
He is done with his twenty four on.
They pack a picnic lunch and leave
for their hide-away.

Lying on a blanket,
high on a ridge, they look down on a
patchwork quilt of green and browns,
rust and yellow, as far as the eye can see.

 

 

 

 

Bodies entwined, they lose
perception of time.

The Moselle River Valley is bursting.
Its sleepy rivulets meandering through
staked grape vines. They align the
fragile canvas of their eyes,
Imagining they will remain here forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because It Is There

 

 

 

 

Climbing my body the sea breaks below my chin. Inconsequential debris to the living things washing past me. I dare not imagine what these host may be, me a mere visitor.

My pale skin soaks up rays, I want to drift away but stay saving that for another day. My toes dig into the ocean floor, their momentum drives me. On cue my arms dig troughs propelling me into a silent void where my breathing can be heard and my heart bursts adrenalin shutting out the sound of the world.

Uncertain my tenacity will carry me, the tiny island, my destiny, juts from the sea, its understated boundaries declare “this land is mine and will always be”.

Flipping upward I float eyes closed, afraid I’ve miscalculated capability, thankfully a large waves drops me indecorously onto the shore. Am I the first to set footprint on this slice of earth, the first of my kind this place has seen? At the shore I set sail from sea gulls soar, dark angles in the azure sky.

From my vantage point the world is beautiful, the palm sways and waves his fronds fond farewell…He seems so all alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wings Thrumming 

 

 

 

 

I drift on an opalescent breeze,

dreams flower in my hair

They shed in heaps of autumn leaves

red and gold and green.

I am traveling far from childhood,

where dreams were never welcome.

Transparent skies cast a tattered shadow

 a Mayan god takes flight,

thrumming ancient wings. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedicated to missing girls of

Chibok

 

How long has it been since the door burst open?

Fist-eyes stare at the ceiling.

A click of the lock, a hand over the mouth,

muffled cries dissolve in sweat.

The ebb and flow of insects across a filthy floor;

How long has it been?

 

Bonaventure

 

 

Once the grounds of a plantation, it spreads over acres, behind the parish to a stand of trees, as far as the eye can see.

Marble statues adorn the finest sites. The grounds keepers rake and sweep, they don’t look at me as I wander among the head stones, careful of burial sites,  respectful of the dead.

Near the trees water floods graves that have sunk beneath the spongy earth.  A  statue lies above the lead. It's marble yellowed over the years, the grave keepers promise to scrub them but not yet.

Further out, a few metal grave markers date back to the revolutionary war, they lean as though they may topple in the lightest breeze. Most of them  marked “unknown”.

Then the graves from  the civil war, their names etched into  the plaques, blessed are they to return to Dixie. In a family plot, surrounded by stone, an entire family lies. Generations going back to arrivals from Wales and foreign lands, as far as the eyes can see. A double vault holds a man and wife, beside them three tiny headstones all dated within their first year.

At my father's grave, I wipe the marble cover with cleaner and polish it to a shine, I don’t know why. His  grave is isolated, having given up her ashes he is all alone. I placed the yellow mums in the funnel shaped container, they look cheerful In the bright sunlight. I think these will be the last I bring for him, I doubt I will ever return.

 

 

 

                                                           

 

 

Film Noir

 

 

 

We have been traveling for hours. The relentless tedium   transforms monotony into a restless frenzy of short-tempered barbs and endless cigarettes, one lighting the other. My eyes are red spheres squinting at a slippery ribbon of highway through streams of rain that slip around the wipers and drift into my periphery; they are a metronome swinging from the rear view mirror to the road ahead.

Fiddling with the radio dial, she searches for “Cottontail” but all she retrieves is swing. I adjust my fedora lower, relieving my eyes with the godsend of her gams climbing up to heaven. She smiles knowingly and looks away, deliberately hiking the hem of her skirt. She is a  marvel of  blissful arches and cattail limbs and I allow myself the luxury of a brief fantasy.  She is dreaming of the things she will do with her take while we enjoy a reprieve from reality.

Spotting a neon sign, I back off the pedal and swerve down a side road to the cheap hotel below it. Escaping the rain we slam the door behind us where she applies fresh makeup and brushes a blizzard of  platinum.  Her breasts pressed against me she whispers a throaty sigh, “fix me a drink, will you baby?”

At the edge of the bed she slithers from her slip, a smoky eyed toy in stilettos, sweat from her glass drips down her midriff pooling at her belly. Tortuously unbuttoning my shirt, my breath is a hot prayer; my lips find hers and all the right places remarkably precise and voracious.

The sound of the sirens are lost in desire, the sedan sits outside where I left it, abandoned except for a stash of jewels and a cleverly concealed derringer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Muscadine

 

 

Spring’s misty curtain hung over daffodils and crepe myrtles. The crystal brook flowed past the arbor where never ending appendages draped the trellis, its canopy sagging under the weight of vines and clusters of translucent nipples clinging tenaciously. The scent of pepper and asparagus emanated from the earth.

 

Grandfather snaked garden hose through the lattice work To discourage white tail deer from ravaging the vines, a guise that sometimes worked. Growing past fields of wildflower and cotton wood trees in a place known only as “the branch”, a well-known lovers rendezvous. I understood that this was a private place.

 

Soon the clammy dragons of summer breathed their fiery breath and grapes ripened. Bursting skin dripped juices from the luminous fruit and they were declared  ready for harvest. Ruptured with a pestle and filtered, they were processed according to a secret method known only to Grandfather and son and stored in ceramic jars. Sweet and crisp, the wine was  underdeveloped but pleasant.

 

Rarely did my father materialize from his travels once I was delivered to my Grandparents summer. Somehow harvesting the grapes invoked his presence like a lark at dawn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beneath the China Berry Trees

 

I recall the big white house on the top of a hill, peaceful pastures surrounding it. Though it was fenced, still I woke at times to the face of a curious horse gazing in my bedroom window.

The yard was bare earth and spread to the tobacco barns where sweet smelling leaves tied to their sticks by the handers and lupers were stacked to the roof. How pungent and pleasant it was. I would be chased away on the advice that it might be harmful for me only to return with my fine friend from down the lane. 

I sometimes watched the croppers beneath the China Berry trees, grateful for an occasional breeze, stringing and singing their gospel that spread through the farmland and out into the countryside. I listened in wonder at the beauty of it.

 I once tried to string tobacco and fell into the rhythm of it without recognizing it. My hands grew tired and I had the option of begging off and returning to the comfort of the big white house. Soon I would leave for the city and forget all about the gospel singing and bleeding hands that strung the back-bone of this nation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Cotton Field

 

 

 

It was August, the dog-days  of Summer. No more trips to the river to cool off for fear of the dreaded disease lurking in the muddy bottom. The Friday fish fry’s at Johnson’s Ferry were over for this year. From the back porch I alternated peeling peaches and reading scripture to Ada, from there I could see the field hands. Picked up before dawn and carted in the back of my Grand Dad’s truck to their destination. A gigantic polka dot table cloth spread over the field beneath the blistering sun. Strapped around their necks, long sacks trailing behind them. Some of them wore  gloves, most were  without and  plucked the miniature clouds of cotton from the dry bristles of the plant with bare fingers,  swooping in  out like birds, they bent nearly to the ground. They had been there since five that morning and would remain till the sun went down.

I once begged to pick and after many rejections Ada sewed a strap to an old flour sack and sent me off with the rest. Withiin an hour I begged and pleaded to leave the field. The hot sun blistered my pale freckled skin and bristles tore at my flesh. My tender fingers resembled small sausages, red and swollen. The tears flowed and I howled for Grand Dad to rescue me from the torture. My fellow harvesters chuckled and a few laughed out loud and called me “little cotton face”. God, my pride hurt, but not so much as my damn fingers and I dropped my small sack and ran back to the farmhouse and hid. Now, I try not to look at the laborers. It sends a sinking feeling to my gut, a literal pain,knowing the tenacity needed to endure their plight. I recall once a young black boy climbed up onto the tractor at the edge of the field. I ran out, in need of a playmate, and climbed beside him. We sat together, pretending to plow. Later, My Grand Dad snatched me up like a tuber from the garden and told me never to go near the black boy again or he would thrash me good. I cried until I ran dry, bewildered as to what I had done to provoke such wrath from him ,who to that day had never raised his voice to me. Years have passed since the days of my childhood, but the wounds inflicted by the old south remain with me still, like faint scars on my white skin from the day I picked cotton.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you remember still the falling stars that like swift horses through the heavens raced and suddenly leaped across the hurdles…Rainer Maria Rilke

 

 

 

of Falcons

My animal guide is a Falcon

with   wings spread wide

still I never glide over snow

covered mountains or deserts

come alive with cactus flower

below a sunset fading like

autumns overripe fruit.

Even  in dreams I concede  I am not a bird

but never really earthbound.

art by Karol Bak

 

Interlude

 

In this dream I turn to you and

light my cigarette from the glowing

tip of yours.

I propose we fly away.

Your dark eyes whip my mind

into arousal and your elegant hand

on my thigh turns me soft inside.

Your breathing is a sigh against

my ear that whispers my hair

and crimson lips so near devours

your resistance.

Against waves of joy and sadness

dreams are always what it could

be like.

Suddenly hares chase foxes

and Roebucks hunt hunters and

to shield me from the terror you

hold me within bleak arms.

 

Babylon Premium

like a butterfly

A heart can fall like a suicide
descending shades of midnight
frozen blossoms on an icy lake
a silent breeze of despair
Escaping this chrysalis
Let my tongue flirt like a butterfly
among wildflowers than
polish scars,  de-bride old wounds.

 

Just Once More

 

I’ve  unfastened  knots

expunged cruel disputes

expelled grief to an acceptable level

Hidden sadness behind a wink and smile

cast all  doubts out to sea

We’ve conquered the boundaries of both hemispheres

where we traveled half-blind in the mist

Let me have you hold you adore you once more

and *if it  don’t work out then you can tell me goodbye.

 

*Then you Can Tell Me Goodbye"  The Casinos

You and I

 

Fierce and unbending

this current we sail

softly gliding

this way, no, fly there,

hearts beating  throats

pulsing, spines arching,

bursting like supernovas.

When you go I become the

the pulpy heart of a

sea gull whose cry unravels

the deepest caves or threads
    of sky, a lone sand piper

begging for salt with soulful eyes.
    You and I , the sea and sky

 we the cord strung between.

 

 

Harbinger

 

There is a thicket lined path

near a marsh that leads to

a softly flowing spring where

at it's grassy banks we lie.

My hands glide the stillness

of your face that I love like

summer wildflowers.

Above, the sun hangs like overripe

fruit , at sunset it drips like 

amber wine down the horizon

 the color of your

eyes when you hold me.

 

 

 

Bones

 There's a sickle of moon

above a lush forest floor

where scavengers pluck

flesh from the bones of

a wolf.

 

 

In my mind the wolf

hides inside me

waiting patiently the

impulsive lamb.

 

 

Dark heart I hear you

howling for possession

 

stars plummeting through

our veins.

A frenzy of birdsong

can not conceal the

longing that lingers

in these bones.

 

 

 

Impulse

 

The sky is liquid,

a roll and clash of thunder.

The grass is tall

beneath the rain trees.

Silence,

a stifling blanket of

isolation and a madness

that is not my enemy but

exposes everything for

what it is.

Restless,

I ache to leave

my crying place

before melancholy claims

this ruinous summer.

Let me stretch

like some sexy feline,

a carnivorous Panther

succumbing to the

impulse to pounce

 

 

.

Photography by National Geographic

Summer With Burroughs

 

Summer with Burroughs

 

 

 

Remember last

summer we were

obsessed with

Burroughs?

Anything familiar,

like the sound of

far off thunder,

close enough to subdue

the mad-paced hours.

Something  inciting,

like a strike of

lightning,

the odor of combustion

ready to ignite.

Everything electric

that made us come alive.

Our hearts caught between

whale song and sigh,

spontaneous thunder

with intermittent quiet,

sporadic as a summer storm.

 

 

Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”

 

 

 

Do These Things

 

Do These Things

 

Assemble a poem around me

paint me on your canvas

lift me up on whispers

released into your dreams

the embodiment of  want

inescapable taboo

let me be the rhythm of

your beating heart.

 

 

igorjmedvedevme

Let Me Be

 

 

Let Me Be 

 

 

 

the sun who shines

without expectation.

A breeze that shapes soft

passages where you travel

uncertainty.

Let me be the wind,

breathing lilting melodies

that set your heart in motion.

In darkness, I will be

the moon, a swell and pull

of tides that draw you to me.

On a windscape strung of string

hidden brightly among the stars,

ascend with me,

the world so far below.

 

 

 

 

 Pinterest

 

 

It Wasn't Meant to Be

 

 

I  hesitate to call  myself

human these days

a  stone bruise of loss,

the l sting of abandonment.

Filleted by the bludgeon

of love and hate

not the same way or on the

same day

Inconsistency is the surest way

to weaken the bark

loosen the roots

placate the never ending ego 

 

 

 

 tumblr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Metamorphosis

 

Metamorphosis

 

Stars cast stilettos at our landscape.

Fingers flurry down your body, a rosary.

Rising beneath you, a thousand butterflies.

Hourglass

 

The Hourglass

 

Dip your fingers in an ocean of light.

Fill you hand with pearls,

tiny moons in outstretched hands,

a remembrance of our open palms

sifting silt of transparent hours,

powerless to reverse the passing

 hours

 

 

 

The Hardest Part

 

The Hardest Part 

 

 

I can hear a thousand heartbeats

if the crickets are quiet. They have

hearts too,  every living thing

quivering like a leaf in a thunderstorm

blood whooshing through the vessel

that runs behind the breast bone

beats tripping over beats to that

place where  longing waits.

 

Rosewood and Lavendar

 

Blushed with moon glow

the hours pass slowly,

a lingering scent of rosewood,

fading footsteps at the gate.

She  snuffs out the candles

flickering on the nightstand

saving their remnants for

another day.

With the  elegant hands of

a fragile ballerina

she gathers her scarves and  

stores them away.  

Opening windows

to a room that belongs

to no one, she waits.

 

 

Out of Body

 

 

 Our  glasses are half empty,  whiskey the color of your eyes when you are aroused.   I fixate on the whir of the overhead fan. When you reach for me  I practice my “out of body” until my eyes close.    You ensnare me with naivety,  expose my liability. It is so easy to distract you, tossing back the sheets we make love and turn away. Silently sharing your  hand rolled cigarette we watch the curls of smoke rise and rip apart in the blades.    I vow to  not meet again  but your eyes are stardust and my heart is a red sports car racing along a razor’s edge.

Birdsong

 

Her trill lilts through trees

across fields of poppy

echoes through  mountains

Carries down valleys

spills from bell towers

into the dreams of seekers

unwavering  crusaders

Her bones are set with courage

Her eyes wells of wisdom

She sings for you and me

a song of dignity

 

She Doesn't Speak French

 

On sleepless nights

I stroll the left bank in sequined heels

eyelids heavy with smoky glitter

Among the art I find you

Your essence pierces my veins settles in the pool of my heart

ambient lights flicker their last warning in the cafe where we

sway like willows to long forgotten love songs

Then you are gone never hearing  Je t’aime

the only French I know.

“Je t’aime, Je t’aime  “ 

“I love you

Like a fool like a soldier

Like a movie star 

I love you I love you 

Like a wolf like a king 

Like a man that I am not

 I love you like that”

*Serge Gainesbourg

“Je t’aime, Je t’aime “

 

 

 

The Moon That I Made

 

one white, caught in the current ,

rushed ashore on high tide.

White capped waves on sugary mounds

fall back into the lacy sea. 

Ribbons of sand diffused with light, soft ecru,

coaxed abalone to an ambient glow.

Soon the dark will devour the day and nigh

t will descend, distorted and bowed,

the curve of horizon swallows 

the sun in a wheel of sparks and a moon

that I made for you streaks the sky

with flecks of gold. 

 

 

The Foothills

 

Pristine winter

breathes her breath

over glistening hills.

Forest trees bow down

to blowing winds.

Caribou footfalls sink

into snow smothered valleys.

Do they sense the presence of ancient

souls in their world of ice and mist and

desolate sky?

 

 

Departure

 

 Come morning I have renamed us.
Healing wings heavy with snow christened frost,

a forgiveness I can believe in.

I’ve etched your voice in my memory,

not to forget the sound of flight,

birds battered by the wind. 

In dreams you orbit above me,

a hint of blue at dawn that I may sleep free of shadow.

I’ve pared us down to dark and light

, forgotten all I know of love

and when I speak my words catch like rose petals

tied with silk, crushed beneath a breath.

This Upcoming Winter

 

will forego floral for  herbal perfume

prefer  vintage chic over woolen sweaters.

Forsaking pretension, confine my mind

to originality.

I will indulge in lesbianism Dada

and  Aristophanes clouds of adventure.

Wedged sideways between allegorical

sky scrapers I will graze my lips against

your unshaven cheek,

drift away on your daydreaming voice

as you recite Song of Songs for me.

Suspended

 The alcove is bathed in candlelight.  
Circlets of smoke rise  from your cigarette,

 disperse in the whir of the ceiling fan. 

A  vase holds a red rose. 

A butterfly sinks deep inside its velvety petals,

a beautiful shimmering thing,  more permanent than us.

  How fragile we are,  how silent.   

I pluck an overripe plum from an ivory  bowl,

bite into its tender skin, delight in the sweet flesh

bursting between my teeth,

the nectar dripping from my lips and fingers.

  I offer  a taste and you smile  your fleeting smile. 

The smoke from the candle streams silently,

intermingling  with the mist suspended

Impressum

Texte: Holly R. Hunter
Bildmaterialien: All images borrowed from google unless otherwise noted
Lektorat: Holly R. Hunter
Korrektorat: H.R.Hunter
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 14.01.2013

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