Burning Hour
It must be the music that touches
this hiraeth hollow
sweet and bitter below my ribs;
I cannot for the life of me think
why else as I roll an old ink press
over layers of cloth and clay
I remember exactly
when you were lost at sea
and I began surviving
differently.
It must be the music
because outside the sky
still reflects
uncanny ice blue
there is pink in the cloud
sailing across steadfast
the moon
is almost gold
and you’re no longer seeing
any of it
through my eyes
that I know of, dear heart.
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Molokaʻi
chris o'mahony
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Sunset Over the Pond with Storks, 1917 by Maurice Hagemans (Belgian, 1852-1917)
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If You Wish It
You never crossed the Lethe,
so you cannot forget.
I could make you forget.
*
What wins out
when love is strong as death?
*
I remember
climbing a wide stair
straight from an opium dream
to a room holding all sound close
with thick-woven secrets,
the blackened bedstead hinting
of vulnerable skin.
I remember
how fickle time slowed
for a bashful, forceful god.
*
What wins out
when death and love are one?
*
Sleep. Lighter than a feather
is the brush of flesh
with the universe.
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Silver Sunrise
(c) riverwindphotography, December 2023
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Because hope knows nothing. Hope only wonders.
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sleepy Liam
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Gold and Silver by Jo Stephen
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The Shape of Things to Come
I swear I’m not staring
at her name. It’s only the cast
of each letter, the grace,
re-entry for my memories
carved in clay, all else erased.
That night instead of chasing
stray Northern Lights above
stone walls of an old water tower,
instead of heading back
along dark water, singing
through blue air I’d breathed
for too many seasons,
I arrived at a wheel and a kiln.
I swear I’m not staring
at her face. It’s just
the effect of her making
and unmaking, it’s just
her intense concentration.
Now that I’m right here,
I can’t think of anything else.
I’m only staring at her hands,
I swear. Only her hands.
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…this light…
@sweet-harmony
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Touched By Fire
Dream for me an equal
sacrificial
nemesis. Dream again how he
is held low over the abyss
as his flung-out hand
becomes the floor
of the volcano
we all thrive in,
himself solitary
and never sad for his own sake.
*
Godhead, forsaken, and yet
still maker,
harnesser of benign heat
and scarcely believable
destruction,
dream for me again
that there is finally
an end to strife.
*
Aware of too much pain,
shaping hands
grow cold.
What will it take for us
to make ourselves safe at last?
In these bleakest of days,
Prometheus,
guard flames.
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You do not speak.
Complete already,
a rich edge to your distance
precludes words.
Quick thunder
is your falling
because I need you
to fall;
my smooth sober vesper
you remain.
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Lluís Graner (Spanish, 1863–1929) - Nocturnal View
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