Beneath green water

below lotus blossoms

kissing gourami

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ancient sentries

old stone soldiers

standing vigil

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needing to wring

they remain motionless

delicate as doves


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When I can’t sleep I gaze out the window into  darkness, nothing but a sliver of a moon casting a haze over the water and the soft rush of waves in and out, I wonder about the  sea  creatures,  do they dream?  Do they  sleep?  If they get separated from their kind do they sense loneliness, do they weep? Down the street I  see a lit store, night shift behind the counter.  A man leaves with a brown paper bag , stands out front and drinks from the bottle. Is he like me, so afraid of that moment, that crossing over into unconsciousness, or perhaps he is not like me at all but a monster who would harm the elderly store keeper or the young whore sleeping in the door way  across the street?  I keep watch should I need to call out to their rescue.     I lose focus and my mind wanders where I am so afraid to go and to what I do not want to remember.    I have turned my eyes to other lovers but you still burn just below my surface, a flame beneath my skin.  I try to refocus by staring  into nothingness.  I miss the feel of you,  the sound of your voice,  your eyes that I sink into.  I want to  sleep,  I need a  reason to get up when morning finally rescues me. I  want to forget , not give a damn about you.



Image result for Art by Lidia Wylangowska


google art

the experiment

Having just come from reading  D. Wallace Peach’s experience with her new stove ( I highly recommend you visit that @ https://mythsofthemirror.com/2016/10/25/my-oven-saga/)   I was reminded of  a young girl barely eighteen, living abroad on her first Thanksgiving as a married woman, no where near as domestic as one (or even two) might desire   became  material for research  in force drive evolution. The  taming of this rather fragmented creature was  priority in establishing the hierarchy and setting the dynamics of control essential to  sustained domination, the proven building block of a solid marital foundation. To enforce, validate, or refute, the facilitator  went forward with a blind experiment intended  to affect the behavior of his  subject,   gathering participants  for which  the young girl was  to prepare an elaborate  dinner.  The experiment was not defined as failed  nor considered a mistake as it resulted in a new and unexpected result by determining at what point the very flammable experimental subject  would undergo spontaneous combustion.



by Heartafire

You are perplexing.

Though I pretend

I have yet to figure you out.

Slipping slyly into me with tender poetry,

some kind of voodoo,

or  hold me playing gentle

with your tiger paws,

teeth at my throat.

One thing I know for sure,

you are skilled at

breaking and entering.

Paper Birds

I have unfolded us like origami,

dissected our borders.

The shadowed corners of secrets

I have forced into the light to mourn

like the  small bones of birds

 somehow sacred.

I have renamed us  where every memory

 is not an ache beneath my ribs

and thoughts are not assaults on the dead.

I am the flush of peony,

the shades of healing scars.

Xevi Vilarò

the Park

Part I

The man seemed out of place, standing by the water in a frayed sweater, well-worn shoes, an impressive attaché. I had noticed him there every day for the past week.   Inexplicably,  on this day  I followed him, was actually  close enough to reach out and touch his shoulder. He turned towards me and smiled, his eyes were deep set, the pupils wide portals that gathered the autumn colors,  dilated pits of shadow even in the midday sun  centered in  glacial irises that softened when he smiled.  Sepia outlines against the landscape we stood together watching a swan, graceful ballerina, glaze the water slowly leaving no sign of a wake. So intrigued by this fated figure  I could not resist sitting  beside him.  He reached into the briefcase and offered me an apple, barely suppressing my smile at the irony, I took the apple though I was not hungry.    I fought the temptation to arrange his unkempt hair and run my fingers over his unshaven cheek. I had the unsettling suspicion that he knew what I was thinking.  We talked about how quickly summer had passed and the beauty of the fall leaves.  Suddenly serious he confided that he came to the park to kill time, that he had lost his job and his lover had fallen to the irresistible lure of the black dog.  As though I were listening in on a private conversation  I felt overwhelmed, resisting the urge to take his hand.  I sensed the danger and instinctively pulled away and unceremoniously stood up to leave.  He asked me if I would return.  With no intention to do so I told him I would come back.

Part II

Haunted by the  unorthodox stranger and somehow sensing  impending peril  I  was unable to sleep,  finally giving into  sleeping pills with a sip of water. Eventually falling into a state of suspended consciousness only to waken drenched from an  erotic dream.  I cursed softly and found my way to the bathroom in the dark to avoid disturbing his sound sleep.   At dinner I considered telling him about the man, even going so far as to  mention how inexplicably drawn I felt  but refrained, bewildered at its  significance;  not wanting to  explain it.  In the bathroom I stood under the shower, letting the cool water spill softly over my face and down my throat,  cupping my breasts, imagining his  elegant hands upon my body.   Back in bed, I  closed my eyes tasting the salty tears that slid from them.  Drifting off  I promised myself I  would  forget about the encounter at the park, never go back there.

Part 111

From the window that overlooked the rolling slopes across the way, I saw him, his hair tousled in the breeze. I  tried to look away but was compelled to observe  his every move   outlined against the grass, the long stride along the path leading to the lake, I  settled my view on his silhouette and the glow of sun on his tanned face. Tossing my sweater across my shoulders I  hurried along the path toward him.  His eyes lit when he caught sight of me, gleaming as brightly as the clear blue sky.  We sat on the bench beneath the large birch tree that came alive with bird song.  We were destined,  surely as the sea meets the shore and my subconscious began to vibrate for him and that for a smear of time  kept him sane and grounded,  loves tender sentiment. Retrospectively I knew exactly when he began to slip away and there was no way to hold it back.

Since our death I haven’t been the same.  Washing pills with cognac,  my world a  void of absence. He is at a loss, doing all he can to bring me  back,  feeling I may  dissipate like card ice.  I have fallen out of love but haven’t the heart to tell him.  How angry he would be if he knew of the man in the park, of the very marrow of life that  we shared without shame.  I must be ashamed, my face feels hot whenever I think of him and when I allow myself to wake, I am  a whirl wind of wild emotion sinking back into drug induced amnesia  where my shell  remains a possession of suffering.

Part IV

The earth is stripped of its color.  Where is the sun that burned liked fire?  The park is blanketed with  ice,  brittle branches offer bleak shelter to the silent birds,  their wings pulled sharply against their skeletons.    A woman tugs her coat against the wind, its rough threads guarding a lifeless heart.  Her eyes are dead things, no longer vibrant,  reflecting   the grey clouds.  She is caught in the shadow of the park where   a sparrow falls lifeless  to the snow. She is lost,  unable to find her way among the snow banks. Somehow she welcomes the sorrow, the pain that reminds her she is still alive.

A winter park bench. © Colline Kook-Chun

I need to start a fire

House of Heart

I  cherish every beat,

every emotion of life.

I am weary of vigilance

and need to grieve the lost.

I want to start a fire,

distinguish love from

a  cunning scheme.

The days are a flinch of the eye

and these  tears a healing balm.

I will  to rise to the light

but tonight I need to start a fire.

I’m as cold as the midnight moon.

“Woman on Fire” by Jacqueline Robinson

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hymn of birds

In the sweet release of freedom

my heart bleeds an extract of

flowers until each captive is a

petal loosened from my hand.

A whisper against my skin

that I am more than mountains

or specks of dust or the sever

of flags  divisive as tongues.

The wing beat of a dove

reverberates with choice,

an open cage resounds with

the symphony of life.

Image result for images of birds escaping a cage

google art


Soon it will be winter with its

steely cold   sheets beneath

the shiver of uninhabited bones.

We were new in January.

Reticent hummingbirds, we

circled around us approaching

with the quiet sigh of wings.

Our  core  became skeletal cardinals,

their  song diminished with  giving.

You were  an ever present promise,

gentle me reluctantly yielding,

the harsh me an  impassable fire of bridges.

What is preordained  will endure,

leave its mark,   take revenge?

I am sentenced to your furrowed  brow

and  the never ending winter.


Image result for painting of beautiful woman in winter

Shane Artistry at Deviant Art


by Iris

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