Emerald

Who could have known  Your face would  launch a thousand  ships , the forbidden taste of  blood red lips  Stolen,  How delicate  Your hand ,  And smooth   The curve of hip, Your form tender  As etherial dove, An embodied love, On wings  Set free  caressed by sun  And spread in open air  Across  The glistening waves  Of the emerald seas  That are your  eyes.

Who could have
known
Your face would
launch a thousand
ships ,
the forbidden taste of
blood red lips
Stolen,
How delicate
Your hand ,
And smooth
The curve of hip,
Your form tender
As etherial dove,
An embodied love,
On wings
Set free
caressed by sun
And spread in open air
Across
The glistening waves
Of the emerald seas
That
are
your
eyes.

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The Street Corner

The Street Corner

Years we had looked
to find that place again.
We followed the music
of Spanish guitar
on the street
by the Jazz Club de Papa,
where once the city became
suddenly silent
and a sweet voice
sang a high and beautiful
Ave Maria
on the street corner of
St Benoit.

The Grande Dame

The Grande Dame

Hallways
of the Grande Dame .
How many babies  were
born , wrapped
and carried here ?
How many women healed ?
Walls painted white
now are waiting
for the artist’s hand .
Some artists
sit thinking ,
some
dancing ,drinking ,
or  pigment mixing.
Lilith and Eve ,
they were progenitors
of the Grande Dame
MD.
Egyptian eyes,
Ank in hand ,
and on her forehead  .
the last maquillage
before
by design
she, Isis is brought down
to her end
for a shining
new beginning ,
for the regenerative
concrete, glass
and steel
of  woman’s
new healing.

On Queen Street West

On Queen Street West

The sirens of the city

are traveling along

the fabric bazaars

and appliance stores

of Queen Street West.

The wood tin spire

of St Marks

lurches into the air

at an angle

listening.

The daylight heat

is blazing.

So is the fire.

The fire trucks

are bullets.

They careen

breakneck down

the street.

Shining

red and yellow cabs

follow right

behind them.

Do they care

about the fire?

The fire is burning

somewhere along

Queen Street

and

black smoke is rising

up into the air.

From “The Black and Other Base Elements “by PWChaltas

City

Image

Urbane

City
Surrounded by concrete,
lights,
and a crescent moon,
the obsolescence
of hearts confounds.
The milquetoast of regret
seizes,
and shattered glass
repentance
cuts a tear
of cerium oxide rust
in the soul.
It’s imperfect with
the screech of feather
cutting air,
as crackpots entertain
trained monkeys
on bandwidths,
while we engage
in the urbane .

From “Persephone’s Call” by PWChaltas