Buried moon, buried moon Who to talk about at noon When dreams are plundered by light And powdered in gold and charcoal dust. Crescent fairies are sad in the rouse and at falter to surmise the scanty slumbering traces that…
Buried moon, buried moon Who to talk about at noon When dreams are plundered by light And powdered in gold and charcoal dust. Crescent fairies are sad in the rouse and at falter to surmise the scanty slumbering traces that…
Let me take you At the border of a dream Lulled by midnight’s Oars of sleep. Let me love you As I would No one. Let me taste your words Unspoken and lamenting On the back Of your tongue. …
September First is a burst of clear touches of blue and soft winds on dew in crystal mornings that warm to silent fires holding trees in dire and such lusty love-embrace that they know no more of Summer. I decorate…
Like morning haze clinging to sycamores So is my love Captive in the cave of swimmers dancing in the flicker of fires Casting shadows of things that could be… Art by John…
She quit pretending she needs a hero. She is her hero Her own sun and stars. She is her sunset above the sea She is her moon in late twilights She is her words making pools of smiles For whom…
The night of last was as charmed as the lust for balmy winds awake in the fields, betrothed with hills loved by the mere and the surreal moons Touching you with the fire of springs. Art By Rene…
Here comes winter like a thief Stealing hope from the warmth of the placid lovely summer… We are left with the tears burning holes into souls We will always love… Dark winter… …
Here comes winter Like a wolf breathing snows in the wind. Trees gripped in icicles whine in the moon Carrying souls To the fogs of a disillusioned sun. Painting by Julius von Klever.
Harbours are places for encounters We go there often. We play a game Of looking at ships gliding Through foreign scents and mists and amiable far-aways… Water is a place for life and dreams. Painting: Harbour flare by John Atkinson…
Harald Sohlberg. I could write a poem for each and every one of his paintings. ……………………………………………….. What is the light without a moon And the moon without the light? The light is what we crave But moon is what we…
“Language is not like the sun,
heating and scorching
but like the moon
keeping secrets
and the arcane magic of the night
throwing stars
in the lilacs’ claws
till dawn.” -Iulia Halatz