The mourning Women

I hear them in quiet moments.

These women with their mourning songs-

So hauntingly beautiful,

So hollow and wide

but always reaching my spirit in it’s darkest depths.

I sometimes call out to them to stop.

Knowing however, that I want nothing of the sort.

These women whose wails have created more life

and pleasure than can be comprehended.

They carry their mourning songs sewn and wrapped across their hearts.

These women with calloused hands that have cultivated and uprooted their hopes

and have faithfully watered the ego’s of pot-bellied husbands.

These mourning Women with their distant looks

and forgotten stories.

I have seen them many times before

in mirrors of the past and echos of the future

I shut my eyes and try to paint a lighter reflection-

one that demands less of my being.

She appears again, silent at first

And then her mourning song begins.

Parallel Hearts

Your hands like soft kisses upon this untamed terrain that is my body.

The touch which glimmers as though honey were burning over Bronze.

The volcanic sunset of our desires…

Boiling over and reduced to one cold drop of finality.

I imagine unspoken words, wishing upon them, like fragments of invisible glass,

Held franctically and carelessly.

spell bound.

Only now are,

heart, mind, body and soul in one assembly.