Tag Archives: model

Shadow Falls On Grace

The young woman looks back, beautiful but unsure,
in an ad from an old magazine, back of a curio shop.
Regal and fresh, but I can see something in those eyes,
a crack in the diadem, a tarnish on the world of gold.
A woman I love, whose feet I didn’t think touched earth,
who was beauty and artistic royalty, is nursing wounds,
gone to rehab, gone to sleep awhile. We all have poison.
Her diadem cracked. I now see the tarnish in her world of gold.
Some other era, an evocative moment sells perfume, pride.
Manicured and demurred, and still the shadow falls on grace.
The long ago model and the woman I love, and my lost soul,
all have poison, coming in through wounds, going out through fangs.
I go to the counter, buy the magazine, and a whizz-bang novel.
A teenage girl, smiling and friendly, takes my money, chats.
I make small talk, and know it’s another mask on what’s real.
Is there shadows in her eyes? Can’t say so on company time.
We all have poison, and we all know fear and loss and rage.
Diadems crack and there’s tarnish on the world’s of gold above.
I’ll buy some daisies for my love on visitation day tomorrow.
Maybe that model outran the shadow falling over her.

Sea and Sky, One

French model. French cigarettes.

The sea before her. Dim blue morning.

The smoke. Her dark hair. Whipped about.

Cold sea wind. Cold morning. Warm dreams.

Soft gold. I take pictures. She is regal.

Grace. Latest fashions. Some without.

Flesh is gold. Gold I buy magic.

I buy a spell on glossy paper.

She is an eclipsed sun. Silver morning.

Golden night. Bright around the shadows.

Her eyes are distant. Distant as an angel.

She was born of an angel who loved a man.

Night is falling. Stars come out.

Blue sky’s tide is rolling out.

The moon kisses her. Only pure kiss.

I pack up film and camera. She watches the sea.

French model. French cigarettes.

The sea before her. Sea and sky, one.

The smoke. Her dark hair. Whipped about.

Cold sea wind. Cold night. What are these dreams?

Something To Hang Upon A Star

She plays the drums, lost in it,
simpatico beats, joyous racket.

Working all the energy of love,
scent of her lover in a gift jacket.

Maybe write songs, like as a girl.
Maybe her lover plays guitar.

Something shared in creation,
something to hang upon a star.


Clear, no bad thoughts, fears.
Just the rhythm, just the noise.

Not worrying about grace,
or that perfect model poise.

Hum of flow, just this thing.
Just this girlhood past time.

No pleasing fanged men,
whose temper turn on a dime.


Thunder rolls out in the sea.
Salty air in this hotel suite.

She stops her drum playing,
thinks of a perfect day in Crete.

Her and her lover, just young,
almost normal, almost ordinary.

Photoshoot soon, model glamour.
All this light and magic to carry.