Posted on by House of Heart

Cherry Blossoms

warning: may be triggering

A mass of  tangled limbs, we cling to one another. I  hold tight to my baby sister as we are tossed about the dank floor of the vessel, its  boards pelted by  the spray of  high swells. Her  scent distinguishes  her  from the others, the smell of blossoms freshly picked.
Just yesterday we were  lingering along the dirt road that leads from the old wooden school house to our   home of splintered walls and concrete floors, ignoring by instinct the slant eyes of  uniformed men in an old van, getting closer and closer. 
Our school books are scattered on the path, muffled cries drowned out by rumbling motors.   Miles from home we are fed La Rochas to  soothe us into sweet fevered dreams.  
We awaken in a perfumed  world of pale pink sarongs and  silk fans, the slits of men’s eyes behind unfamiliar walls.

Posted on by House of Heart · 28 Comments

Murmurings

The sweltering breath of a summer 

squall rushes east to west weaving

through Spanish moss and tender 

willow’s that brush the earth.

Sultry sighs vanish in the night like 

feathers carried on a breeze. 

Across the way a single candle casts its 

shadow on a strangers wall.

In the ghostly light a girl dances like a 

wild bird, 

starling wings, undulating murmurings, 

a melody,

and she alone drives the night.

https://render.fineartamerica.com/images/rendered/default/print/6/8/break/images/artworkimages/medium/1/ascension-steve-goad.jpg

Ascension Drawing by Steve Goad | Saatchi Art

Thank you , Bernd

Posted on by House of Heart

cartography

On this  hot humid  night I doubt that  I am coherent.  Alone  at two in the morning has teeth. When you leave I feel a visceral loneliness that I am certain is internal.
 It always feels like April here.  I ramble about sunny meadows and how the wheat smells  of  lavender, tell you about  the  painting I am working on  and how it takes so long to dry.  I am acutely aware of the  momentum of  words and how I miss the  tender touch of your hand on my thigh.   My hands  are worn raw  in search of common ground but I haven’t the words to not betray myself.    Implicit trust frightens me , still I consume all that you  give me  as though each secret is not an infringement.
When I  look  into your impossible  eyes  all I really want to do is  get drunk,  draw maps  upon your belly.
Shhhhh..

Posted on by House of Heart · 92 Comments

The Mirror

In the mirror 

nothing comes nor goes

without pausing.

A woman admires

gilded baroque and the 

form inside it.

When she dances

the image moves with her.

Over her shoulder 

The room is still and

Bereft of sacrificial lovers

and so she dances alone

for the mirror.

Artist Unknown

Posted on by House of Heart · 65 Comments

storms


I am touched
by a storm,
the tongue of a
fire that burns
away sleep.
A tide crashing
into millions of
crystal droplets
becoming the sun.
My heart is ripe
like summer fruit it’s
sweetness flushing
through veins.
There is a storm circling
the pit of my stomach rising
to ache in my throat. 

13459S

Steve Hanks Art

Posted on by House of Heart · 207 Comments

Bowie

David Bowie (born January 8, 1947,London, England—died January 10, 2016,New York, New York, U.S.) was a British singer, songwriter, and actor who was most prominent in the 1970s and best known for his shifting personae and musical genre hopping . Bowie was notably prolific , having recorded 26 studio albums over the course of his nearly five-decade-long career.

Art by Resa McConaghy ( copyright)

To call Bowie a transitional figure in rock history is less a judgment than a job description. Every niche he ever found was on a cusp, and he was at home nowhere else—certainly not in the unmoneyed London suburb where his childhood was as dingy as his adult life would be glitzy. While this born dabbler’s favorite pose was that of a Great Artist beguiled by rock’s possibilities as a vehicle, in truth he was more a rocker drawn to artiness because it worked better than any other pose he had tried (not that he was not eclectic—he admired Anthony Newley and Jacques Breland studied mime with Lindsay Kemp).

Bowie dabbled in different styles without success until finally achieving his breakthrough in 1969 with “ Space Oddity “.

Under Pressure with Freddie Mercury

All art by Resa McConaghy

Sources:

Brittanica

IMBD

David Bowie Biography

Posted on by House of Heart

Wing-Blood Mountain

poetry by John Hulme

I remember you there

burning with stories 

in the worn, torn pages of your gaze

like eyes in a waterfall

running deep red

from all those burning starlings in your hair

your wing-dye entourage 

bleeding your beauty clear out of the sky

I remember you there

as the train pulled out

hiding your luggage in a nest of 

fluffy toys

and cuddly stars

right by the doors

at the busy end of the carriage

ignoring the disapproving glares

the half-whispered comments

the barbs just spiky enough to crave an audience

as angry travellers 

cursed and queued around you

I remember you sat 

monk-like and mysterious in your hood

moodily free

like a mindful hoodlum on retreat

a gangster 

from a world of torn starlings and riots

shuffling tickets and possibilities 

hugging a floppy bear between your knees

waiting for better stories to swim past the window

always where the train won’t stop

…

I wake in your sunset

watch starling fire crackling over the horizon

tap out the drumbeat with my thumb

frozen mid-keystroke 

in the echo of those tracks

just like my voice

choked as it is 

with words too precious to escape

their truth melting in the daylight. 

Poetry Copyright John Hulme







	



	


				Posted on  by House of Heart									 · 
					57 Comments
											


							
Rosewood and Lavender
					

		

Blushed with moon glow





the hours pass slowly,





a lingering scent of rosewood,





fading footsteps at the gate.





She snuffs out the candles





flickering on the nightstand





saving their remnants for





another day.





With the elegant hands of





a fragile ballerina





she gathers her scarves and 





stores them away. 





Opening windows in





a room that belongs 





to no one, she waits. 





Image result for art by Mark Spain

	



	


				Posted on  by House of Heart									 · 
					146 Comments
											


							
Tender Places
					

			

	

	

		

The shimmering lake glistens with light,





reeds rustle beneath the feet of a whitetail fawn.





Leaning forward her pink tongue





curls backward spattering the sweetness of life





into her nose and eyes.





Spotted ears pull sideways,





heeding the sigh of the forest,





the breath of a breeze.





The kiss of sunlight transforms





green to autumn gold, brown and rust.





beyond the edge of the wood





summer collides with fall





in  tender places of the wild. 





Do No Harm






	



	


				Posted on  by House of Heart											


							
My Apple Tree My Brightness
					

		

Can’t you  see that  I love you ?





Oh how I hurt, I hurt you so much I know.





I’m torn apart and this is so because





You lost me and I lost you too.





Baby darling, tell me it isn’t true.





I am torn apart 





tell me you are not gone. 





Baby, don’t leave.





copyright the Author writing as Serge Gurkski (rip)








Sinead