House of Heart by Holly Rene Hunter (readnow TXT) 📖

Interlude

 

In this dream I turn to you and

light my cigarette from the glowing

tip of yours.

I propose we fly away.

Your dark eyes whip my mind

into arousal and your elegant hand

on my thigh turns me soft inside.

Your breathing is a sigh against

my ear that whispers my hair

and crimson lips so near devours

your resistance.

Against waves of joy and sadness

dreams are always what it could

be like.

Suddenly hares chase foxes

and Roebucks hunt hunters and

to shield me from the terror you

hold me within bleak arms.

 

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like a butterfly

A heart can fall like a suicide
descending shades of midnight
frozen blossoms on an icy lake
a silent breeze of despair
Escaping this drying chrysalis
Let my tongue flirt like a butterfly
among wildflowers rather than
polish scars,  de-bride my wounds

 

Just Once More

 

I’ve  unfastened  knots

expunged cruel disputes

expelled grief to an acceptable level

Hidden sadness behind a wink and smile

cast all  doubts out to sea

We’ve conquered the boundaries of both hemispheres

where we traveled half-blind in the mist

Let me have you hold you adore you once more

and *if it  don’t work out then you can tell me goodbye.

 

*Then you Can Tell Me Goodbye"  The Casinos

You and I

 

Fierce and unbending

this current we sail

softly gliding

this way, no, fly there,

hearts beating  throats

pulsing, spines arching,

bursting like supernovas.

When you go I become the

the pulpy heart of a

sea gull whose cry unravels

the deepest caves or threads
    of sky, a lone sand piper

begging for salt with soulful eyes.
    You and I , the sea and sky

 we the cord strung between.

 

 

Harbinger

 

There are roses along

a path near a marsh by a

a motionless bay.

My hands glide the stillness

of your face that I love like

summer wildflowers.

The sun hangs like ripe fruit

and sparks become fire.

Soon winter’s wind will

chill our bones and the

silent wilderness of longing.

 

 

Bones

 There's a sickle of moon

above a lush forest floor

where scavengers pluck

flesh from the bones of

a wolf.

 

 

In my mind the wolf

hides inside me

waiting patiently the

impulsive lamb.

 

 

Dark heart I hear you

howling for possession

 

stars plummeting through

our veins.

A frenzy of birdsong

can not conceal the

longing that lingers

in these bones.

 

 

 

Impulse

 

The sky is liquid,

a roll and clash of thunder.

The grass is tall

beneath the rain trees.

Silence,

a stifling blanket of

isolation and a madness

that is not my enemy but

exposes everything for

what it is.

Restless,

I ache to leave

my crying place

before melancholy claims

this ruinous summer.

Let me stretch

like some sexy feline,

a carnivorous Panther

succumbing to the

impulse to pounce

 

 

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Photography by National Geographic

Summer With Burroughs

 

Summer with Burroughs

 

 

 

Remember last

summer we were

obsessed with

Burroughs?

Anything familiar,

like the sound of

far off thunder,

close enough to subdue

the mad-paced hours.

Something  inciting,

like a strike of

lightning,

the odor of combustion

ready to ignite.

Everything electric

that made us come alive.

Our hearts caught between

whale song and sigh,

spontaneous thunder

with intermittent quiet,

sporadic as a summer storm.

 

 

Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”

 

 

 

Do These Things

 

Do These Things

 

Assemble a poem around me

paint me on your canvas

lift me up on whispers

released into your dreams

the embodiment of  want

inescapable taboo

let me be the rhythm of

your beating heart.

 

 

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Let Me Be

 

 

Let Me Be 

 

 

 

the sun who shines

without expectation.

A breeze that shapes soft

passages where you travel

uncertainty.

Let me be the wind,

breathing lilting melodies

that set your heart in motion.

In darkness, I will be

the moon, a swell and pull

of tides that draw you to me.

On a windscape strung of string

hidden brightly among the stars,

ascend with me,

the world so far below.

 

 

 

 

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It Wasn't Meant to Be

 

 

I  hesitate to call  myself

human these days

a  stone bruise of loss,

the l sting of abandonment.

Filleted by the bludgeon

of love and hate

not the same way or on the

same day

Inconsistency is the surest way

to weaken the bark

loosen the roots

placate the never ending ego 

 

 

 

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Metamorphosis