The sky was a cornflower
and the trees heavy
                  with birdsong
air fragrant with freshness
cooling the silk of my bare
heat rising from my
skin in shades of
tropical
              morning pond
oasis of damp promise
teeming with life
           under surface
mini color-popped creatures
humming with
       fluorescent vitality
fronds reaching out
in an aquatic dance
nourishing the gateway
to inner organs  
with sweet
           vitamin love
as a trip of
           buzzing, faintly heard
opens into my brainwave
revitalizing
    cleaning out toxicity
pushing out
words that lower
                       self-worth
bringing up subconscious
potions of power
harmonious with the new,
embryonic fluid of clear
                  reaching deep
into corners of
          brittle heartdust

And my lotus soul opens
            a small glowing orb
expanding in  polychrome prisms
                to the glory of
aurora-tipped streaks
           as straight into
my aching heart
       the quenching dawn
                                      speaks
My thirst slaked by
nature's mantra,
I now stand waist-deep
into grounded
            and heavenly clarity,
feeling water lilies bloom
between my thighs
as I take the occasion
to pick up the pieces
                  where my soul
left off
and despite all odds,
              arise

"No!" - He protested
Yes, he had said that she was like lightning,
but he meant that she startled him
with her randomness
and thunder,
and not that she pulsated
writing a spiderweb
into the nights sky;
it was that she filled him with a certain
nervousness...
and no, that nervousness was not
like an electricity.

And while the argument continued
it was brought up that he had also compared her to a storm.
It wasn't because she climbed with a certain
inexorable quality
like the tides
or that she was the perfect mix
of calm pretense
and wuthering looks.

It was more because she reminded him of the rains
lightly dancing on his bedroom window
making him dream.

Tout semble parfaitement parfait
mais...
a l'interiur, il sent de la pouritture.

Les nuits sont longue,
et...
je aussi longtemps.
Je aimerais revenir
la nuit quand nous
sommes recontres
a nouveau.
J'ai hate de rire.
J'ai aimerais etre alleurs.
quelque part ce n'est pas
cette apartmente
avec ses pelouses
parfaitement entrenues
ou personne ne
connait mon nom.

They say artists
are tortured
Conceptually
Figuratively
Also literally
Some create through chaos
Out of seeds of destruction comes
a harsh beauty born of the artisans
experience of the world
Some express through their tears
their captivity, and from this
brutality again comes beauty
Joy
Ecstasy
emotive threads bind us
Loss  
Sorrow
it's soft ether numbing us
Driving us to tears
To apathy or
to death
Or to Art
As a means to fight for
something beautiful
A means to resist the cut of the knife
As a means to make
Something that would make her smile
Capture that glow
Make him bite his lip
to hold back tears
Make us see beyond our limited realities
And fears
Make me whole again
With stanzas, Indian ink staining our fingers
With stitches, tapestries of lives long past
With music, that can transport us to the depths of depression
As elevate us to the strata above in one refrain
With paint stained brushes
With spray on trains
Art as protest
Artists are amongst the first in those
waves of repression
cultural victims, with science
following at its heels
Persecution ******* their steps
The possibility of losing your life
for the creative output
.. and many have
let's not forget
So art is born of pain, perhaps
and some from joy as quickly
as from fear
Regardless of its origin
You know when you find that spark
You understand intrinsically
That light as brain and heart ignite
And you breathe catches, ragged, rhythmically
In your mind, alive
Exist in perfect time with appreciation
In this space for here lives Art
Be touched by the pain or joy
Sorrow or longing
Be embraced by flow
of words and style
My chest tightens
and eyes mist
This is the artists tortured soul on display
They placed it there
for me
So all could see
what was laid bare

Simple things, like a slow start to a late morning
Like listening to old disco waft over the scent of Arabic roasts
The slight insistence of last night's indulgence not quite crawling across my brain
Like watching my capering daughter with her joy in a small rainbow umbrella
Small hands wanting to help with tasks only a little too large
The company of bright minds in Similar states of satiation
Full of the richness of hollandaise, eggs, the sharp oiled smoke of salmon
Simple things like hi-fiving as we collapse on the sofa, space cleansed, evening sun sprawled a crossed the wall
Golden Berlin sunset calling a riot of houseplants into soft violet contrast, shadows long
Simple like the way the sun catches your profile, and my breath catches in my throat..

Simple things

I feel fine, now
that stoical ice
grows within me
like a tangled vine
wrapping around
inside, and outside
I'm a laughing smiling
clown upside down
on my house, and
my life, you see
this frown painted
by Courbet, realistic
as Pushkin's finest
piece of poetry.