To Get There

She knew most things that she needed,  was taught early  with books, shelves of encyclopedia and thesaurus, great dictionaries of words. Curious about the world she learned from the past what was and what would be.  She was not allowed to forget anything but the feel of his hand and the sound of his voice when she daydreamed into beautiful gardens and wide seas of wanderlust that she  found in dark alcoves and halls filled with bottled rage 0f other desperate perinea climbing the tower to escape in weed  where flowers of peace burst  beneath a brilliant sun. At night  she made love in the jungle or on a moon polished beach where contentment hid behind sea walls  strung with tea lights, holding back the  tide of ancient choreography.  To get there she stumbled over memories, looked away from begging hands,  most brutal of all,  buried the bones of a small child.


I don’t look down.

Above I can hear wide walls of

water dropping into  pools,

spilling  over countless edges.

I grasp at stones,

lift my feet onto  slippery steps,

they slide on mossy sludge,

sink in deep pockets of mud.

My clasp of fingers grip spindly

veins  reaching for me,

pulleys that resist when I let go.

I  scream   at the  fury of water

that thrashes the rocks,

beating them to death for

derailing  its downward path and

there is no way to console them.

The retribution is why I come here,

a hell of pounding  retaliation,

blasts of spray cross my back,

sting of needles upon my neck.

My misty image in sheets of glass

crashing around me.






Ben Huberman’s Daily Prompt : Sound

If I  am quiet

I can hear the buzz

of hummingbird wings,

acoustic waves hovering

over lush gardens,

iridescent feathers,

facets of stained glass,

green, purple, silver hues.

Compound eyes and straw like

beaks smeared with flaxen

too fine for the eye to see.

They live in the moment

in an enchanted world,

flower to flower,

a flurry of flight.


Remember when

I arranged my world

around you?

Trailing  beside you like

a  kite tied to your wrist

or racing ahead your footsteps

just behind

never too far because you

you were part of me.

Remember when you were a tow

head boy  chasing a long legged doe

through blowing fields,

running so fast the wind could not catch us.

In our sun ripened orchard you

whispered adventures we longed for.

Suddenly serious  when your eyes  met mine

stroke lightning passed right through us.

Image result for art by Steve Hanks

Steve Hanks artwork

Fear of Falling

Up high  he  shimmers like rhythmic

dewdrops on broad faced leaves of an

amazon forest.

Baring her secrets, a mythical bird spills liquid stars

upon her gossamer gown.

Garlands of tiny feathers bind her wingspan of hair

and her sigh is  carried like a song on the wind.

Below  hungry  birds peck at tamarind pods

tear at fragments of flowers more beautiful

than she.

Ukrainian photographer Oleg Oprisco

art by Victor Koulbak

In Exchange

In dreams  I take  the form

of a frightened  tigress,

the breath of a hunted animal.

When I rest beside you

I become invisible.

In your territory I am an intrusion

and you chase me far into the dream,

place your foot upon my throat.

I give you my drop of blood

for a spark of empathy

from the moon of your eye.


Male tiger photographed near a village after killing a cow inside Bandhavgarh in India. One of a series of amazing big cat shots shared in an interview with National Geographic Wildlife Photographer Steve Winter



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