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Why the river
The rain, the snow, they fall and restless wander soon; they tarry not on slumber's peak. And rather falling, ever drawn, on fated roads the gathered strength it rushes on, while hapless leads the winding way. And each new corner casts a turmoil, crossing roads that can't be crossed with time that will not now be lost; as one crossed one then one to three, then half a score a score shall be, and in the sight of one and ten the moment stops and starts again - and flows the river to the sea. The rain, the snow, they fall for me. The Hero The quiet hero wanders on. You seek as sought have some. Perhaps, his path, it crosses yours. Perhaps, the crossing's done. What hero's path could be your own that clowns not entertain? What jesters have in my own court passed a while the same? 'Tis true this time of folly lasts. While moments linger, ages pass . . . as weeds from corner planters grow, where heroes hide what they'll not show; the moments kept, which none may see; the battles lost to reverie. And yet the sunrise comes again. The silent hero turns in sleep pressing to the thought of when his hero's deeds someone will keep. Perhaps the moment then, as dawn, could linger as some dreams before. Perhaps a hero's heroine is what he needs - and nothing more. A breaking pool of crystals As a hammer, light upon it shatters with it's touch the surface of the starry night and dark returns to dust. It falls from up to down about me - touching as it goes; like scattered jewels it lays the land; the ruby is the rose. A breaking pool of crystals the light of dawn sets free. For some the greatest treasure there. For some, but not for me. For what of sunrise bears the day when last eve's stars did ceil the night. The morning, it may keep its jewels, for I've loved you by candle light. Morning, after you've gone Morning, after you've gone, rings with the quiet of slow moving shadows creeping out from dark corners; night's refuge is gone. And morning breaks softer, slows to a halt, and . . . hangs half suspended, forestalling the day without you. I need silence, but only when you're not here. I need to be alone, but only when you're away. And when I am alone, I miss you . . . desperately. A toast . . . Your color is much as the fragrance. The fragrance is much as the wine. A toast to this moment of distance - the taste of this moment in time. To see, 'tis the forest in autumn, in April, the seasons begin. You are the seasons in motion; I, the twelve scattered winds. A kiss A shattered darkness dawn set out. 'Tis half past sunrise; dawn has grown. The warming sun has turned about and lain the land in morning tone. 'Tis in that light the day begins; the note to start and spend a while. And such the stage I sit within and wait each day to taste your smile. 'Tis then the dawn does rise again. 'Tis then the warming touches me - "Perchance, your lips . . . ." the thoughts begin "A kiss as soft . . . ." the reverie. On twenty-nine Today, again the turning of thoughts within the sphere; exceeding fine the details passing wild my ways to here; my roots which will not hold and branches not unfold. My turning oft' I wonder if not in circles 'round, and then I ask in riddles, "Is today all that I've found? Then what of yesterdays, for yesterday's a must . . . ." 'tis then the life within my veins flows as dry as dust. 'Tis then that I will rue today; 'tis now I rue before. A score of years and ten less one, is there nothing more? Untitled (until Vi) 'Tis shrouded in a mist of dreams - A sunrise in this barren place. Compared to all, so pale all seems. The sun is risen for thy face. And taken all the stars of eve' and placed them in thine eyes to bring eternal summer sunrise there. Thy lips, they part the breath of spring. And of thy form, be not betrayed, For Eros had thee blessed, the first, For Eros knew the need of drink to quench the want that man can thirst. Thou art women, born of ways of which one man has longed, and more. Perchance thou art my reverie which I have never dreamt before. It rains today in keeping My lips, they search your belly. Your breast, my pillowed brow. My hair; your fingers running - chasing after now. My hand, upon your body - (I trace invisible seams) where curve to curve does meet. My purpose probes your storerooms lost in darkness where you your secrets keep. In hopes I may add a few moments categorized under, "Mem'ries, for rainy days." The All-Important Element Being alone and being lonely are different . . . I've been told that. There are wise folk all about. To be lonely is to be alone, even in a crowd. There is nothing wrong with being alone, we should just not be sad about it, nor see it as a weakening. Being alone is not being lonely - you still have the company of yourself. Only avoiding oneself is the weakening, and in that weakening lies the sadness, for then we become separate of our dreams. As the seed of the tree is not the sunlight which makes it grow, we are the seeds of the tree. Our dreams of perfection are no less us. To come to know oneself, one must only be aware it is one of those things which cannot be sought and found, only discovered and experienced. |
Darkened windows, reflecting
When night comes, I do not see it, nor do I see the darkness - the unseeable. Yet, I note the absence of light. Similarly too pass moments in waiting; illusion, hope and what is folding into one with only perceptions to guess which are which. Images casting reflections appearing to be where they are not, what they are not . . . We are no more than we perceive. We can be no more than we are. Yet still, we perceive only reflections. Perhaps you are the symbol of my own lack of light seeking an image to reflect upon. Perhaps, I yours. Or perhaps we are neither and need only reach in the dark. The Sacrifice The female has always intrigued me. Even earliest recalls, the difference was there; that they would grow soft and ripen in spring time - that I would grow tall with a face full of hair. And what; that softness to muscle's like April to spring. My season grew ripe for this sort of thing. But be what the process that is now, I am; and in all this confusion of spreading about, I'd rather have one I could live with and love than ten I could have but do well without. On awaiting spring While the rain keeps falling, I'll weather the time turning slowly into the damp-- too tired to look up and too insecure to look back. When the rain stops, I'll come out and play; and if the sun comes out, I'll maybe spend the day; but only if you play too. For now, the rain keeps falling, and my winter coat is worn. The summer sunshine's far away, and nights are cold and long. But winter's always warmed to spring; I'll find the seasons through. Winter rain's a tired time. I'll hibernate with you. Starry nights Starry nights were wrapped in winters chill, and snowy tapestries hung wearily from arms of cedar boughs which stood in random disarray - reflecting prismed sunlight in varied shades of day. And played the seeds - id est to time; the chill, it warmed; the heart was mine - as monotones of grays and browns turned to green a painted ground. Then April country, canvassed soft by palette and the palleted - turned the sun to heat of day. The rainbow bore off June and May. July, it passed the time of day. But yet, the summer sunsets came and burst in crimsoned, ambered, orange flame to burn late August afternoons leaving but the darkened trace of dusk sweet honeysuckle vines and pine scented shadows. I sit in darkness now, left to leave an autumn pass as august lingers on through fall, rememb'ring stolen glances of friendly warming smiles, to prepare once again for starry nights wrapped in winter's chill. In search of perfection I seek you not to bend you but rather to unfold, as I bear and unfold my patterns - there for you to trace my web, or mend the tears from others caught who fought in rage to find release; or there perhaps to fight as they and tear asunder patterns drawn for you alone. I leave you that which you have woven. For me, I blend your pattern - crossed, unfolded over mine. I wait times passing, longing, once again, to press to you. I seek the solace replaced by rev'rie in the presence of your absence. There I trace the flow of rhythm, the rise, the fall your naked breast to mine, and breath your breath in probing moist embrace; finding shadows of dramas which my fancy unfolds - as we, the phantoms of characters, remain an illusion disappearing each day in bashful restraint. Sun worship The sun rose early this morning again. I care not why and know not when. I bade that it should speak to me, so silent in its' reverie, the sun, it only stared at me as it stole the sky between the rims I watched and waited as it rose. Why it came no closer, only heaven knows, but I waited just the same. It seemed so futile, attempts I made, to touch the sun, so unafraid, but when my hand rose to its face, I felt the warmth upon my place grow warmer on my naked skin as it slowly sank to the western rim. I watched and waited as it fell. Why it came no closer, only heaven can tell, but I waited just the same. The sun, it rose early this morning again. I can't remember why or remember when, but it came up this morning as it did back then, as I forced the sleep from my eyes again, and I saw it suspend on the eastern rim. I watched and waited as it rose. Why it came no closer, only heaven knows, but I waited just the same. I could feel its warmth pour thick on my skin; like soothing, kneading hands in place; and golden rays like tender lips of sin placed kisses upon my face, as the wind ran fingers through peppered hair, it rose up higher and settled there. I waited this morning 'neath the eastern rim. I watched and waited as it rose. Why it came no closer, only heaven knows, but I waited just the same. A zen moment Loving 'dearments loiter, on restless thoughts are hung. Am I now not older? Am I now not young? Loving 'dearments loiter and are restless to be said, but words are poor as brushes to paint what's in my head. No words hold emotion you could taste upon your tongue. What words are past "I love you!" that feel as I have done. |
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