| her
to my dearest
somebodySomeone
it is to thee
I,from the Rooftops sing
my dying (un)love
that thee will
with kisses be full
everyEach sunrise will
with roses begin
everyEach twilight we'll
alone and only be in
I pledge to you
my shoulder
upon which you(inbetween
holding you
everyday closer)may
forever cling
for it is to you
whom do I promise
my wholest heart(and)
softest whisper
without hesitation
will you never again
want or wish about love,
nor wonder
|
courtesan
in so slow
careful circles floating
she(without wings)so
graceful hovering
above,around,inside
me she glides
weightless, without effort
so dreamlike-brightly she
(without halos)shining
gleams
warm and blue round flowing
radiant she(in
majesty)glows |
| dark
dear and sweet
dark melancholy night
hold me close, tight
in your arms or
I might(just,
though I do not wish)slip
vanishing away, and if this--
how can it be?--your wish,than
one last time
you must sing me
a lullaby,
please
and promise me
this, don't(and,
of this I insist)let me
wake up
(alone)
|
toward
sometimes
when you smile(at me)
I am young if for
only this moment again
and briefly;
I am me once more
who is it that I am
when your sometimes smile is gone
and how do you
alone
peel away, buried deep
beneath what
I am not, find me
when you sometimes smile(at me)
I am in love(with you)
|
the children of Eden
when at noon the apples are blue
when from the rose black blossoms bloom
and their thorns are pressing
down and adorn the altar
of the tomb of god
when the maidens of Sophia sing
when from the lips of siren song
and their melody is keened
the Knight of Wands
on bended knee
and the Black Madonna is King
(in whose image do you pray
upon the shroud who is the face)
when the rain from the sky is red
and the keeper of secrets
turns the key
and reunites once more
the lost children of Eden |
April Sonata
spring is smiling, smiling
miracles rehearsed in a safe dream:
daffodils, dandelions, daisies, dahlias--
flower petals and pieces of cloud,
fig blossoms perched in a leafy tree
spring is singing, singing
'yes' in a chorus of wind:
dance, run, jump, climb--
cricket wings bow a morning melody,
bird wings softly brush the air
spring is painting, painting
the earth in technicolor spirals:
sculpting, widdling, inching, healing--
the robust grass is healthy in new skin
the sky stroked by a wet paint brush
spring is speaking, speaking
love in a soft voice:
preaching, teaching, telling, giving--
listen, hear her message,
let spring take you by the hand
|
soul gliding
when I am far away outside
myself gliding-(just this side
of)inside the sky-flying
chasing the horizon, climbing
through the depths(deeper)diving
to seek and maybe to find
that which may lie above or behind
the veil of all I am allowed
by science and their white coats
and microscopes
to be or to know(if only
I could somehow show)
all or any fraction of that
which they, with their
axis and parenthesis
axioms and hypothosis
(or by which they
can multiply and thus divide
between their boundaries &
parameters they hide)
but it is somewhere
inbetween
or just outside
just out of reach, beyond
though (t)here to find
but to see you must
first close your eyes,
deny yourself,(dispatch,let go)
leap and fly
to a greener hue
and brighter blue,
a greater truth
a seperate you
|
blue flower
there is a flower
I wish I
could give that, with
it's blue petals, could
show how much more
than color my
love is;
that with it's fragrance
could, just by
breathing it, bring
closer to me, you
nearer
there is a flower
I wish I
could grow
that could with it's
frailty reveal --
with each bud opening,
all that is
tender of my, in
every corner, heart
that with it's true
and so simple
beauty tell
you
just how much
more, than words
could ever, deeply it
is that I carry
deep inside me, you |
Sophia
there is not truth
there are but many:
with eyes to see
see not but stars
but also graves
with ears to hear
hear not mere trumpets
but for whispers bear witness.
And so again,
I ask you hear me
(though your eyes must listen)
to touch the horn
of the unicorn
or to wear
the crown of thorns;
to love or suffer
or to suffer in love
in black and white
or in technicolour...
and only DaVanci's sky
is bluer than even your eyes,
my dear, and
more carefully guarded... |
Stargazing (with Elanour)
my least sunset is,
when I am with you, more-
every star shines
a little each brighter
when your hand holds
mine tenderly tighter
(and each and every twilights
gleaming view is
more grand and very).
With just
your slightest touch
or smile and any word
or whisper is (and can be
and only) but not even I
nor has any - not
before nor since, nor
will any(near or now) or
in some distant f a r a w a y
future - be or can, with
any word or gesture
posture(that which is)how
when your hand and
when my hand-when
at dusk are together entwined,
will the slightest sky
sparkle barely brighter
than before
|
where the horizon meets the sky
No promises, no suicide
the calming waves
the tender tide,
cool and blue the water
round and blue the sky...
To which do we aspire?
should we swim,
or should we fly --
Together you and I
to and fro
the ebb and flo
forever you and I --
to where the horizon meets the sky.
Dare we climb
the rungs of air and
to clouds we cling,
or deeper dive
the mermaids keen
singing porpoise song?
High above the clouds
or swallowed by the sea?
Warm inside the halcyon's nest
curled against the feathered crest?
or on the backs of birds our plight
the tired wings of falcon flight?
adrift amidst the coral and reef
aloft amongst the gulls and breeze.
No promises, no suicide
we'll let your kiss for us decide
|
Sonnets in Springtime
John Woods taught me
with chalk and fist
pacing and chanting
(from memory) his verse,
I listened to him whistle
and learned his tricks --
his right hand would twitch for effect.
He made me believe in poetry
and I stopped going to church.
At night, we all drank cabernet
from coffee mugs,
(smoking Winston's to the filters)
and he'd spin stories
of the cafe society,
of Dylan Thomas and 13 shots of whiskey,
of poets and their groupies.
Reciting verse in
the cemetery after dark --
moonlight, candles, fireflies
thirsty with spring
punch drunk with Byron,
(but mostly wine). |
ode
just who is it that
can show (her) just
How beautiful it is
I(on the inside)am
and why should
(ever so beautiful)she
notice such things as these--
she who is the
scarlet of the rose,
choose the caterpillar
and not the butterfly,
why the bud
if not the blossom be.
Me(who so shyly)in
poems I--and my
innermost everything--hide
when in the hush
of night and all its
colours, I reach
to give her,
when yellow
is all she needs
|
much at all
half asleep sunday morning
with a spider for my only friend
I know it isn't much
but better than being alone
cooped up inside for too long now
waiting for worlds to collide
for walls to crumble
for stars to fall from the sky
waiting for someone, something
anything at all
to take me away
far from here, from all this
a million miles away
or just around the corner
but for now curled up close
I'll just close my tired eyes
dream I am a muse
for a spider spinning its web
to carry me away
to someplace better
or at least just somewhere else |
sinking
living in darkness
for so long now
deep and searing dark
blind-folded then
blind-sided
catching me off guard
taking me by surprise
such treachery
so cruel and ugly
each and every awful all of it
but you weren't finished yet
you were not to be outdone
sadness turns to emptiness
emptiness into anguish
as I crawl away in disrepair
twilight turns to midnight
darkness to cemetery black
treading water
killing time
sinking, slipping away
ever further
ever deeper
unknown and unsung
reaching out, finding none
waiting for a sun
waiting for a sky
holding on
with one hand
barely
clutching, clinging tight
I won't let go of this ledge
|
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