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two lean figures
dissolve
diffusing
diluted to the solution of distance
a fusion with sunset
then darkness like a black blanket
on a bed of trees and grasses

a soul rises from the body
senses still complete
the hearing but not talking
the joining but not being a part of
anything and anyone else
a guiding light
an exit of the tunnel

iii

a rose bud wilting
petals falling from the sepal letting go
raindrops from the roof
the last leaf
the red ants at the foot of the tree
a dead boy discovered on the cliff
a rope covered with dust
a bottle of mineral water emptied of its contents
a man snoring at the beach drunk
a woman undressing herself
plunging her body into the deep sea
looking for the pearl of great price

'is love dead? ' you ask the lady of the night.

'will love die? ' you are philosophical with that last glass of wine.

'Love cannot die' you have read it somewhere
but you cannot remember that book, the page, because the dog's ears
are gone.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space.

quote by Guy de Maupassant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Of The Body And Soul...

upon a fusion, you live immersed
conscious about a self within a self

(as in soul bathed in a body,
body trapped by the roaming soul)

sometimes you sigh
this body is so beautiful and my soul has wasted it,

if i (soul) were just enough,
a transfer should have been made a long time ago

liberating this body and letting it find its own definition of joy
the soul is selfish, having entered it has no key for the exit

these two have been too irreconcilable
everyday is an argument, every night a disillusion

fate, bad luck, inseparability, the absurdity of having to live
on immiscible arrangements

water and oil, sky and earth
the days are running, there is nothing detachable.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Guardian and BloodRose

BloodRose,
Rose of my love,
My love for Dark moon,
Dark as my heart,
Black as my soul,
And gave me my rose.

The rose of blood,
With petals soft and black,
Never as a rose so beautiful,
Grown not in light,
But under a dark moon lit sky.

Guardian,
Yes a guardian of BloodRose,
With teeth long and sharp,
Claws hard as diamonds,
Scales as dark as night.

My dear sweet guardian,
Guardian black as my heart,
Fire in your eyes,
Shadows in your soul,
A dragon of the dark moon.

A single rose,
With petals so fare,
As dark as my heart,
I now hold in my hand,
The rose of blood.

You are my darkness,
Fear of this love,
This love for you,
Love for darkness,
The cold shadows in my heart
That makes me yearn for you.

Now as you lay dying,
I hold a single rose,
The rose you gave me,
And as I hold it tight,
The thorns slice my hand,
Covered with blood,
My blood.

I have one fear,
The fear of death,
Symbol of my lost love,
Rose as dark as me,
Laying in a pool of blood,
Blood from me.

As I lay dying,
I remember my name,
BloodRose,
I am the rose of blood,
And I died of my own creation.

A creation of perfect beauty,
Petals dark black,
Thorns like small daggers,
Grown from my love,
My love for a dragon,
A dragon as dark as my heart.

Even in my death,
I think of you,
And the rose you gave me,
The rose that killed me,
The Rose of Blood.

poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
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Part 5 of Trout Fishing in America

WORSEWICK

Worsewick Hot Springs was nothing fancy. Somebody put some

boards across the creek. That was it.

The boards dammed up the creek enough to form a huge

bathtub there, and the creek flowed over the top of the boards,

invited like a postcard to the ocean a thousand miles away.

As I said Worsewick was nothing fancy, not like the

places where the swells go. There were no buildings around.

We saw an old shoe lying by the tub.

The hot springs came down off a hill and where they flowed

there was a bright orange scum through the sagebrush. The

hot springs flowed into the creek right there at the tub and

that' s where it was nice.

We parked our car on the dirt road and went down and took

off our clothes, then we took off the baby's clothes, and the

deerflies had at us until we got into the water, and then they

stopped.

There was a green slime growing around the edges of the

tub and there were dozens of dead fish floating in our bath.

Their bodies had been turned white by death, like frost on

iron doors. Their eyes were large and stiff.

The fish had made the mistake of going down the creek too

far and ending up in hot water, singing, "When you lose your

money, learn to lose."

We played and relaxed in the water. The green slime and

the dead fish played and relaxed with us and flowed out over

us and entwined themselves about us.

Splashing around in that hot water with my woman, I began

to get ideas, as they say. After a while I placed my body in

such a position in the water that the baby could not see my

hard-on.

I did this by going deeper and deeper in the water, like a

dinosaur, and letting the green slime and dead fish cover me

over.

My woman took the baby out of the water and gave her a

bottle and put her back in the car. The baby was tired. It was

really time for her to take a nap.

My woman took a blanket out of the car and covered up the

windows that faced the hot springs. She put the blanket ontop

of the car and then lay rocks on the blanket to hold it in place.

I remember her standing there by the car.

Then she came back to the water, and the deerflies were

at her, and then it was my turn. After a while she said, "I

don't have my diaphragm with me and besides it wouldn't

work in the water, anyway. I think it's a good idea if you

don't come inside me. What do you think?"

I thought this over and said all right. I didn't want any

more kids for a long time. The green slime and dead fish

were all about our bodies.

I remember a dead fish floated under her neck. I waited

for it to come up on the other side, and it came up on the

other side.

Worsewick was nothing fancy.

Then I came, and just cleared her in a split secondlike

an airplane in the movies, pulling out of a nosedive and sail-

ing over the roof of a school.

My sperm came out into the water, unaccustomed to the

light, and instantly it became a misty, stringy kind of thing

and swirled out like a falling star, and I saw a dead fishcome

forward and float into my sperm, bending it in the middle.

His eyes were stiff like iron.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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O Night O Trembling Night

O night O trembling night O night of sighs
O night when my body was a rod O night
When my mouth was a vague animal cry
Pasturing on her flesh O night
When the close darkness was a nest
Made of her hair and filled with my eyes

(O stars impenetrable above
The fragile tent poled with our thighs
Among the petals falling fields of time
O night revolving all our dark away)

O day O gradual day O sheeted light
Covering her body as with dews
Until I brushed her sealing sleep away
To read once more in the uncurtained day
Her naked love, my great good news.

poem by Stephen Spender
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Life Is Temporary, Here Is My Temporary Life For You

life is temporary, so temporary that it is like something
that you see
and then don't because it has escaped like slippery water from
the hold of your hands,
ephemeral
like a mist, like a fuming vapor from boiling water,
like an air that merely passes by your gaze
like the wind
that comes and goes away from your window
like a cloud that drifts
away from your roof, like a leaf that falls from a tree,
like a flower that blooms today
and tomorrow goes away in the wilting petals
life is so temporary like the ticking of the clock
that you hear at night
when again you cannot sleep
this is life
this is my life it is so temporary
and with all my heart
i will hand it to you as a gift
take it
take it

do you think that my life now exends your life?
do you think that you with my life can live a litlle longer?

take it
take it
it is all yours

because i still love you because i have long been dead in this pain
of you
not loving me despite....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Water.

Water drips off my body
Red water
Black water
Water that looks like glass as it rolls down my face

Stop the pain
Stop the water
Stop the liquid pouring from my body

Feel the pain
Breathe it in
Taste the hurt flowing
Flowing
Ever so smoothly
Ever so beautifully

Red water
Black water
Water that looks like glass and cuts like a knife

Red water
Looking so pretty
Glistening in the light

Black water
Staining my soul
Streaking my face
Making my pain visible

Water that looks like glass
Falls on my body
Seeps through my pores
I feel nothing inside

So breathe it in
Feel the pain
Let it hurt
And let it heal
Cuz you'll be dead soon enough.

April 5 2010
Copyright by Elaine Cole 2010

poem by Elaine Eatsbabies
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Swan, Lake, Leaf, Moon....

Your hands are leaves
Leaves that float on the water
The water is the body
I am the body
Where your dead leaves
Float
I cannot in this
Be the sun
And you cannot be the green
Comforting Grass
of the Hills
Those lonely hills that stay awake
at Night
The moon shines on the lake
Waiting for the Swan
She is the Swan
and He is the Moon
You are a dead Leaf
and I am the Body of Water
We are somehow
Nothing but
Spectators to the Swan
Moon Affair
But sad is this game of Irony
Again some love
more Love have remained
Unrequited....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rose from my Love

Rose from my love,
My love the black dragon,
With teeth like daggers,
Claws of steel,
Scales of darkness,
And a soul of fire.

Do not raid the village,
Do not steal the maiden,
Just guard the rose,
My rose,
The rose of the dark moon.

Under the cloudy sky,
Surrounded by trees dead and charred,
Looking out at the frozen lake,
Remember me,
And wait for my return.

My sweet dragon,
Dragon of my dreams,
Your soul is dark like me,
Even when that fire goes out,
The rose will remain,
As a memory of our love,
But was that love in vain?

No, not in vain will I die,
I will die in the arms of my love,
My love Mokar,
Protector of my rose,
The rose of the dark moon,
The moon I was born under.

poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
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Unfiltered By Mist

when i appear to you
one of these days

what is it that you want to see?

my hands are hard
my ears covered
my eyes in haze
my body in trembling

this is not what you want to see i guess

you want greek pillars as my feet
my eyes as gentle as a roman saint
my ears attentive as a echoing mountain
my body strong like an old castle

but let me tell you how is it to grieve
for someone that i have loved and lost

how is it to cry and yet not wanting to have tears
how is it to be lost and pretend that he has the mastery of the ways
that he has the manners of a man mastering the art of cultured restraint

tell me if you all know these
if you can relate to these miseries

perhaps one day when the world is ready for me

then i will show myself filled to the brim of reality
like a glass emptied of its contents glistening to the rays of light not filtered by the mist

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rose Petals

Rose petals are so soft to touch,
rose petalsfragrance is so divine to smell,
rose petals are like lovely lips which smile,
rose petals are given to lady love,
rose petals are spread on bed of newly bride,
rose petals are life of butterflies,
rose petals are used for beauty baths,
rpse petals are offered on the lotus feet of god,
rose petals are placed on grave of dear ones,
rose petals are offered in river ganga for departed soul,
rose petals are showered on newly weds,
rose petals are decorated on festive days,
roses are given as a promise for everlasting love.

poem by renu Vig sharma sharma
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The Rose

We love the land when the world goes round,
And deep, deep down in her thorny ground,
Where nobody comes, and nobody knows,
We love the Rose. Oh! we love the Rose.

And none to tell us, and none to teach
By the western hedge or the shelving beach,
But all of us know what everyone knows,
We love the Rose. Oh! we love the Rose.

We love the rose when our day is dead,
And they lay their roses upon our bed;
Too late! Too late! in our last repose!
But we love the Rose. Ah! we love the Rose.

poem by Henry Lawson
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And because Love battles

And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.

What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.

And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.

But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: “The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera”.

And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved.

To bread I do not ask to teach me
but only not to lack during every day of life.
I don’t know anything about light, from where
it comes nor where it goes,
I only want the light to light up,
I do not ask to the night
explanations,
I wait for it and it envelops me,
And so you, bread and light
And shadow are.

You came to my life
with what you were bringing,
made
of light and bread and shadow I expected you,
and Like this I need you,
Like this I love you,
and to those who want to hear tomorrow
that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,
and let them back off today because it is early
for these arguments.

Tomorrow we will only give them
a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf
which will fall on the earth
like if it had been made by our lips
like a kiss which falls
from our invincible heights
to show the fire and the tenderness
of a true love.

poem by Pablo Neruda
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Michael Robartes and the Dancer

He. Opinion is not worth a rush;
In this altar-piece the knight,
Who grips his long spear so to push
That dragon through the fading light,
Loved the lady; and it's plain
The half-dead dragon was her thought,
That every morning rose again
And dug its claws and shrieked and fought.
Could the impossible come to pass
She would have time to turn her eyes,
Her lover thought, upon the glass
And on the instant would grow wise.

She. You mean they argued.

He. Put it so;
But bear in mind your lover's wage
Is what your looking-glass can show,
And that he will turn green with rage
At all that is not pictured there.

She. May I not put myself to college?

He. Go pluck Athena by the hair;
For what mere book can grant a knowledge
With an impassioned gravity
Appropriate to that beating breast,
That vigorous thigh, that dreaming eye?
And may the devil take the rest.

She. And must no beautiful woman be
Learned like a man?

He. Paul Veronese
And all his sacred company
Imagined bodies all their days
By the lagoon you love so much,
For proud, soft, ceremonious proof
That all must come to sight and touch;
While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof
His 'Morning' and his 'Night' disclose
How sinew that has been pulled tight,
Or it may be loosened in repose,
Can rule by supernatural right
Yet be but sinew.

She. I have heard said
There is great danger in the body.

He. Did God in portioning wine and bread
Give man His thought or His mere body?

She. My wretched dragon is perplexed.

He. I have principles to prove me right.
It follows from this Latin text
That blest souls are not composite,
And that all beautiful women may
Live in uncomposite blessedness,
And lead us to the like -- if they
Will banish every thought, unless
The lineaments that please their view
When the long looking-glass is full,
Even from the foot-sole think it too.

She. They say such different things at school.

poem by William Butler Yeats
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Song from Aella

O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be: