A love cannot be withheld
that is not purely ours to give.
So the hollowed reed
filled by the purest breath
makes the sweetest sound,
Love is a musician,
it cannot help but play
And the beloved cannot help but listen.
If thirsting,
we should love the depths
of even the most shallow river,
for in that bed
grows the uncut reed
that quenches
I try to catch my words like fireflies
and store them in a jar.
I cannot.
Whenever I lift the lid to speak again,
the jar talks to me…
And off they fly.
In the silence,
inspired thoughts
make pleas for their own release.
Within moments
they are captured by another,
no longer mine.
Anything but silence is futile
when it comes to liberating
the true meaning of my fireflies.
There are those with whom
We are only meant to share
Silence.
He, a single bead of dew,
Aged well, yet threadbare.
Clung to the cat tongue edge of a
Green blade of grass.
She, a daughter among the olive trees
The olive in her palm
cured by the bottom of his glass.
We are all to become done
And what’s done
Is done, but
its purpose
has not passed.
Each a hair
Fell from the head
’tis silence falling
that wakes one from dreams,
instead.
These men “gone missing
From lost souls
Kissing”
Have been found
By authorities,
Beckoned from behind the veil
So they came along
Quietly, quietly
Love thirsting, flesh
and frail.
“Your soul is but a diamonds shine”
Smiled the sage,
“Abandoned by youth,
lost in dunes
And found
In the sands by age.”
Silence blossoms
While mere words wither
In empty spaces, echoes,
Calling,
“beloved, come hither”
A flower knows not
for whom its petals shown
Yet its fragrance
seems so personal
As if meant for me alone.
Banter is but trifle…as anything less
than the sound of wind through wings;
all else is just breath past lips
to raise nothing more than a fading voice
to a wanting ear.
We are the flame that consumes the wick,
we are the wick that burns down the column of wax,
we are the encasement of wax that melts from around the wick…
all these we are,
thus giving the “candle of being”
it’s cadence, it’s heat, and it’s brilliance,
from struck match to flame out to last drift of smoke…
beyond that,
is more than what we are.
Bed bound and solitudenous
Out beyond the edge of reason,
beyond where my senses can claim
I cannot sleep or wake…
nor dream.
A state of insouciant stillness.
Bereft of unnecessary memories.
I am not loved,
I do not love
in ways I can any longer understand.
Stark states of stalemate,
Melpomene and Thalia
hunched over game pieces,
of a drunken heart
lamenting all a sober mind must reason.
When liquid gold and golden light
take to loving,
we as humans, are no match.
Either of these elixirs
in their limpidness,
Bronzes our throat,
smothers our breath,
consumes our vision.
Lingering on the last
still drift of sulphur, struck…
My flickering writhe
is a lambent match flame
Leaning in
to kiss a wild bonfire.
She is a tress of hair out of place,
combed in slow sweeps from my forehead.
I thought her an enigma to perchance unravel
by the press of well-paired lips
or by a mind besotted with moon glow
and Grenache wine;
one wicked with wisdom.
Saccharine words stirred into woody coffee,
I, Whitman, imagine her
the chill of Robert Frost
clung like sugar grains to my Leaves of Grass.
Almandine eyes of the nine Mousai
revved up by unbridled inventiveness…
I twinge too much to hold it inside,
she triumphs beyond the rim of her vessel,
so our ache and exultation
steal past the musing sentinel of apprehension;
and leap from once dormant imagination
into spirit shadows and splendid motifs.
She is a stranger to all,
but to those whom she whispers as lover.
We, two strangers of sun and moon,
curl nubile into night
to take our nuptials at dawn.
One hundred million miles and
one earth between us;
now bound as one, we pull the tides
into an unexpected tempest in my heart;
a tender act of indiscretion
undoing a tame, near tepid, bearing.
Thus muse and artist
feast upon the provender of providence
and all delectable in between them.
I pour the wine, while you raise your cup
until our bodies have had enough,
that our spirit’s twist, wrung out dry,
sexed and sated; shyly truth seeps outside
of careless vessels, free once more –
unable to collide, despite this ardor.
Our thoughts clashed clandestine,
while our demeanors docile.
Your scowl, the bone beneath a smile
our rose skin kisses, turning hostile.
The quaff of a tongue, the taunting touch.
Skin chenille, beneath blankets blush.
Suddenly sensitive to the sounds of dawn,
a trash truck groans, someone mows a lawn.
Last nights dream bent around a now that’s gone.
Time has stopped, but it still goes on and on.
I’m up, you’re naked;
Every morning maunders, over-medicated.
Every house a story, every window, perspective
my window is dark, theirs, a beverage,
to fill a voyeurs empty cup with scornful slake,
set to brew when strangers wake;
having gone to bed not knowing each other,
in the morning, woken as broken lovers.
Writers Note:
No doubt this poem creates discomfort; but for those who know me. I’m quite ecstatic – a poem seldom reflects the pure-essence of the poet. It’s often a veil. But not to digress. We over-medicate ourselves too often on both the lightness and darkness of what is simply “being-ness.” Not good my friends – too much sour can taste “sweet,” too much sweet can taste “sour.” Discomfort is a beloved friend of those seeking comfort – what is more encouraging to a sweet remedy than once in a while allowing ourselves to feel pain, anguish, doubt, fear. These are symptoms of the incurable malady of living, not dying. Poetry, as it goes in life, is sometimes prosaic… let it be. Let yourself be cold and wrap yourself in the blanket of melancholy… there is warmth in the torpor.
THE LINKED HEADSTONES OF HET OUDE KERKHOF
Of earthbound lovers in repose
darkness awakens dreams for those
who in their arrogance sleep so well
with their sinuous curves that writhe in hell
fleeting words leap to a tragic death
off the end of a sentence’ precipice
spoken by guardians of empty spaces
who’s wings are clipped by periphrasis
writing ghazals that shadows recite
to ghosts whom gather to find respite
yet these mortal instruments of a souls confession
are sung to the Beloved for intercession
still enlightened fools, in darkness will part
with the keys to unlock another’s heart
Spires of ice from obsidian skies
land and melt in the warmth of their eyes,
drowning their captains in waves of emotion,
so two continents drift and collide in the ocean
