and now

and now
a cold wind howls
down the staircase
it chases
rain across the children's unmade beds
later
we find thunder and lightning
hiding under their blankets
while they flee from my lullabies
sleep gilds the broken clouds
when darkness gathers again
rain drops softly on my song
and i draw the leaves closer
at night
the clouds catch the city lights' pretence
but in the morning
dawn gleams in the watery gems
indiscriminately adorning fences
birches and empty beds

Monet (co co di)

le coq est
mort
le coq est

les coquelicots sont
rouges
les coquelicots sont

les coquelicots sont
rouges
la femme est
jeune
sa robe est
noir
et son fils

les coquelicots sont
morts
les coquelicots et
le coq:
morts

les coquelicots sont
rouges
la femme est
morte
le coq ne crira plus
co co di

co
co
da

we rain all day

summer slipped silently away
through the back door somebody kept
open, slipped into the tall grass
behind the hedgerows
noon bakes our daily bread
the grain has been cut
apples swell while we rain all day
and the blackberries ripen in the wind
who sharpens their thorns
we keep bleeding until we remember
bread, pies and crumble
the sunny hours

the grass is always
greener on the other side and
the sky
bluer on holiday and the sun
brighter on a sunday afternoon
when the world stands still
except
for the leaves' graceful dance
and the clouds
                            drifting

today i play for pleasure

taking the cello out of his case
today i play for pleasure
chair and music stand ready
resin for the bow
taking the cello between my legs
today i play for pleasure
he rests on my chest
i know his weight

today i play for pleasure
strings stretched
taut across the bridge
no it is not only agony
though the bow grips at them
today i play for pleasure
there is laughter, song and caresses
from my forefinger to the core
song and dance

today i play for pleasure
from the curves of my f-holes
this body resonates
this chord strikes
we climb the scales

from the depths
harmonies yield
d-
minor
pains

sommerflieder, schmetterling

die kühlere nacht berührt den morgen
seine kälteren finger den kürzeren tag
mitten am vormittag stürzt der sommerflieder
durch das geöffnete fenster
lila fällt er mir um den hals
er habe auf mich gewartet, sagt er
ich aber schließe das fenster
sein warmer kuss wächst wild an der mauer
er schenkt ihn nur den schmetterlingen
im zimmer schläft noch die kühlere nacht

Nike of Samothrace

in the midst of a steady stream of visitors and their running
commentary to this famous place, its collected fragments of the past,
the myths of history

you

with your perfectly proportioned
body
(not limbs, because you lost your arms
somehow,
and your
head)
winged goddess of victory

sitting at your feet, i feel
the strength of your stride and the wind under your wings
from your breasts
energy centres around your navel and runs down the naked leg

only i blush seeing your perfection 

exposed 

people walking up and
down the stairs, a steady stream of lost
(faces
displaced
arms)
battles

at your feet, i pick up a feather from your left wing
(a plaster copy of the original right wing in ageless marble)
meet your gaze in the wind
for a fraction of eternity
victory is ours

la nuit de temps

dans la nuit de temps
on était seul
sur l'arbre de la lumière
de sa lune

dans le bois de temps
la nuit était tombée
et les étoiles
du ciel

dans la nuit de temps
on était seul
dans ce tombe du ciel sombre

dans le bois noir de la lune
les étoiles sont ses arbres

la lumière de temps
était tombée
de sa nuit
seule

prayer to a goddess

she is a fierce goddess
who helps me
keep my vow
bearing this pain lightly
i bow

every
thing
is

as it should be
now

i offer you
this lamp and my
happiness

a tear in the corner of my heart
catches the light
for a moment

every 

thing

is

as it should be

now

you are a kind goddess
i bow

home from the seaside

back home from the seaside
sand runs through my fingers like

so

many

days

waves licking at my bare
feet:
ebb
and flow,
the tidal waters rise
and fall

contourless
we lie under the bluer sky
only the horizon draws
a line
between here
and there.

who makes the waves,
and the seagulls cry
and the wind in my hair
chasing clouds across
sky, marshland, your face & mine

back home from the seaside
sand running through my fingers

so many lives