Sanctity.A pilgrim atthe half remembered ruins,sunset wiringstarspun andburning low --alive, somehow,at the night's watch.
Frigid.Without you I'm a winter heart:a cold sunset anda cloudy sunrise,a night on my shoulderlike a ten minute dreamamidst the silent snow --nothing lasts forevermore.Ice on fire,a melting dream,three ways tobreak apart;will you feel anything at allwhen the rain stops andwhen the heart freezes?
Flight lessons.These skies are breaking, butI can teach you to fly --here in this moment,an instant of us onthe far-flung horizon.
Whispers of another lifeYour dress is a ball gown,an upside-down rose petal;those inverted flowersmake half of my garden:I'll make you a bouquetof dark red, and lavender;a dress for warm evenings,our hot nights.Eyes like watered wine,refined, and intoxicating;decanted, measured,inviting and poisonous:You've corrupted me, dear,but slowly, carefully;hazel depths, inviting,deep amber alcohol.A thousand grains of sand,gritty and gravelly, imperfect;nothing feels farther fromyour skin touching mine:Velvet and silk and corduroy,these things of delicacy;every inch of you, satin smooth,elegant suede and swan feathers.Lazy days, shaded porches,iced tea and lemonade;respite that comes from your lips,conversations and intimations:Down below your surface,your flowers, toxins, and chiffon;whispers of another life,lived apart from me.
what we need mosti.blue skies overhead, andthe seagulls come infrom the bay, looking for somebetter nourishmentthan can be foundat sea.ii.i came in from the field,seeking shelter andsolacefrom the burning sun.you greeted me in the doorway,brown eyes and brown hair.iii.we're the same,those gulls and i,thermals lifting us up,hot wind,our concentric livesbringing us back towhat we need most.
Time to change.Where did you sleep last night?With old trees and little lakes,because somedays,the best we can do is pretendit's a small world.Entering meditation,the verb: to dreamabout happinessand sleeping with butterflies.
I love you.I am not myself these days;I find myself, more and more, in the fog of window panes and the cold, misty morning air.I am not myself these days;I lose myself, more and more, in the way light catches off certain clouds of sunset: prisms.What is different? I love walks in the park,clichéd as that may be, and I enjoy the taste of the rain.What else is different? I am not willing, try as I might,to accept or acknowledge that the sins of my ancestors reflect in me.Of course, this is all since I met you. I wish, sometimes, to feel less like a piano,and more like a harpsichord thatonly you know how to tune. I dream, sometimes, of what lies beneath,and of why I can’t findthe reason for why I love you.
Tanganyika1.Your naïve welcomeand medical maroon;temperature tolerance.2.Speckled religion,rituals of life and death;viscous blood taboo.3.A band of crimson,ancient June in the desert;the opulent ivory.4.Patient and scarlet,sacredly perpetual,masks of ladybugs.5.Flitting acceptance,powerful saffron and myrrh,a tribal countenance.
Rest, NowI.The mist of the mountainsLike the breath of a giantSoft, as if sleepingCool this time of yearSettles in around meDamp and greyThe air is murkyI begin to feel alone.II.Darkness comes quicklyThe sun is saying goodnightOver the tops of the peaksAnd leaving in a hurryHe is my friend, the sunStretching his arms out to warm meBut betraying me at lastLeaving me to the murky gloom.III.It is midnight when I hear itQuiet, at firstAlmost like a secretThen louder, forgetting stillnessBeautiful, like a hundred harpsAnd wretched, like a dying thingThe sweet melody shatters my soulAnd I know it is for me.IV.Walking outsideThe stars lighting my wayI see her thereBlack hair, blacker than the nightPale dress, paler than the moonBlood stains on her handsHer task, I see, is washingCleansing my garments of life.V.Her reflectionTranslucent, in the waterTransparentLike the ghost of an angelHer voice sings ofWords never spokenLove never sharedWays never partedVI.
rock bottom, ocean floorhalf-past a different kind of brokenon sadness, she wrote: blind fool in the umbra bury yourself in me on the other side of lonely and by god, i love you (maybe i will be a landfill) everyone i meet looks for a place to stay;out of the woods, on wet roadsunder wind, under rain -i'm so far awayno wonder it took him 1455 pageswaiting for her to come this waytramps like us- in lieu of emptiness in absence of a poem wander, wander (pour a little salt, we were never here)your heart was a broken sailorfishing for hearts with lace and not netting;into the deep end of our storyi saw god leaving the shore
At the WeddingThe photographer:His different point of viewA forgotten afterthought.
Ashes between my sneaker treadsTen thousand reasons,91 days,and a drink or twolater,what once was,caught on fire,blazing red.The place I wanna live inis now the world at your feet,laid down in sombre sleep.All that's leftbelow the canopyleaves slowly, quietly.
TeeterWhen I wake,I amamong the stars, poised on the brink between dreams and reality.It’s so easyto see through the broken bonds between waking life... and the power of Imagination, that same other world so close... too close.Separate realitiesin a sea of dreams.
*Fear*Supernatural wraithTranslucent phantom descentThought impossibleEnormous talons brush hairOpaque eyes, no mercy.2013 Delice194121st April2013
Titles Don't Belong in the First LineTitles don’t belong in the first line,teacher says,and poetry is not made of end rhymes.The ventilated fluorescence and Iflicker at the incongruenceand I want to tell hersometimes east is lefton the mapif you hold it right.
That which we often fearIt’s no wonder I thought you were magic;there are monsters in your head the colour of death,apologetic blood and rattling bonesseeking the company of souls(do you taste like cyanide too?)
the boy who belongs to the sunmoments between sleep, late at nightI talk like you're still hereshining in a dark placelike rain on the seadancing on a tightropeIcarus, just before he fellswallowing shadowswhere wings once layfalling away with youeach word gets lost in the echoand i try to explain itshadows under the moonlighta memory of frost and snowhere, by this fire, with you
don't throw glass bottles at brick wallsto the boy with ghost hands,red marks the spotin the bathroom sinkwhere the light is swallowed.some secrets you just keep.
CovetI want his wingsand when I dieagain,the reality I chose to stay inwill make a memory of me.
June was yesterdayA glimpse of freedomAt the crossroad of SilenceFading as she waits...
Winter's Words"Be my autumn,"she was whisperingwhen her eyes found youtracing in the dustof ethereal dreams.If only she knew...
the elements that bind us togetherpoems, wounds, and dead birdsmade a memory of me.you can't protect me from them;i meet things which do not belong to this world.sometimes there is a dark character in my dreams -her shelterfeels like the end.take a breathon a cold night.little gypsy moth,mi corazon,in every mindare ghosts up in the attic.i'd kill to be queen.
You Linger on the MediterraneanDesperate to leave this home,my August lover,it is not enough to writeour latest love letters.You’re killing yourself,my August lover,for seashine;and the queen is callingdown by the riverside.This poem is not about you,my August lover,(not anymore).Forget tsunamis and Pompeii --I don’t need to breatheor Atlantis as a lover;and the wind will blowme and my monstersby bridges to Babylon --city of ghosts.(And no, I won’t be sorry.)
faces, spaces, placesallow me to exaggerate a memory or two:when somebody says your name for the last time,you let men lay on youto keep the sleep away.years go by like one dayhere under the north star.below the canopies,lost wishes can be found.cities sleep inside our heads;I'm onlya quiet sentinel.the longer I lay here,the most peculiar of places,in the space where I can breathe,I can't explain the feelings I get.have I run too far to get home?we are all astronauts in the dead of night.when a poet's heart breaks,an end is just another beginning.
You Left Me Nine Weeks DueDear Heart,You linger on the Mediterraneanlike only the stars are watching,with three Hail Marys left,a waiting girl,and those he left behind.To be thankful is unforgiving.My mouth is a grave yardwith tips on avoiding word confusionbetween poetry and addiction.You (the messenger)linger on the Mediterranean:gone.
i'm falling away with youI am the wayward child.Tacking on wings months too late; our legs didn't break -Fate gave me a flower; snowflakes and graniteby any other name.Oh, gravity,I am home.Your eyes of forests, branching away.Defeathered, dust settling;if you don't see it, you can never walk away.Batt
There Were Only StarsWrapped in piano strings,The stars whisper:Forgetting is everything.The days remain the same:Boxes of dead poetryWait for youIn the space betweenApproaches and departures.You fold paper for a living,Ghost writing forAn empty audience:Nothing is enough.
Still-life.The best of my paintings:the hum ofa sad piano,a morning cigarette,and a graveside angel;all I ever wanted.