Free Verse # 267 (beyond the farthest star)

I kiss her
like the sea
rehearses his song
in endless endless waves.

~

Eyes closed he kissed her,
tenderly, religiously,
as though she were a river of mist
coursing through the night.

~

Night came
and dressed me
in the colours of a longing
for a face I’ve never seen
yet has always burned in me

~

Alone at night
Listening to the wind
Chiming a hymn
To a forgotten face,
The face we all
Shall one day be.

~

Passing through the sieve of love
his heart became a poem
whispering her name
beyond the farthest star

~

She entered him
and felt herself being engulfed
by an earth made of rain,
soaked full to her bones.

~

In a world made up
of words and clamour
you are the poem
which silence holds my soul

~

She watched him write
and, somehow,
felt the tip of his pen
move along her skin,
etching, bleeding, burning,
turning her into a poem
seared in the mist
of his endless longing,
scribing her in his heart
like a star in the fur of night.

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Free Verse # 266 (their fingers touched)

With his lips and fingers
he traced her freckles,
counting, memorizing, alighting,
the way a poem-flame grazes
a sky made of stars.

~

She stood before the mirror
and kept whispering his name,
by and by her lips flowered
and the bees and butterflies
came in to feast and sip.

~

Their fingertips touched
and the silence filled with the wonder
of a thousand budding stars

~

With a gaze forged
by the fire of longing
she looked at him,
her heart a red rose budding,
silence gathering them
like clouds in the sky.

~

Like water through the vale,
like waves lapping the shore
his hands caressed her
until her skin became
a burning sea of light.

~

Her skin
the texture of a poem
weeping tender light

~

I long for a poem
I cannot name,
the shape of her lips
uttering my silence.

~

Before him she laid,
a white poem,
an abyss of light
calling him to exist
in the act of spilling
his fervent ink
into her endless landscape,
writing her into
the expanse of his silence,
folding her and becoming
an ocean in her love.

~

He writes
and on the blank page
sees her unfolding,
hills, valleys, mountains,
a primal earth birthing him,
setting him free.

Her Face

Her face displaces reality, dislocates it and roots it firmly in the unreal, the surreal—bursting reality from its seams. Therein it burns, a sun transfiguring existence entire into a flame shivering amid our ribs, rooting us in the eternity of her fire. Her face, ultimately, is no more than the light calling us further and further into the mystical depth of a being embodying the whole of life. We submit, and in our surrender become the beings that we were born to be—beings forged of pure love; moths that have finally burned inside the house of flame and have become the raging flame itself, the very heart of dawn.

With thanks for Dan for the inspiration.

Plenum

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His fingers knead her,
longing carved into a poem,
a sea ready and aching
to burst into a soft weeping flame –
then touching her lips he lights her
the way a candle touched by a spark
becomes a well of light –
he lights her,
his opiate breath sustaining
her slow burning flesh,
the fiery beatings of her inebriated heart –
he lights her
and as a candle in the night engulfs her,
her light fluttering
the endless landscape of his heart,
open, surrendered,
becoming what she is,
a being made of light.

Free Verse # 265 (into her arms I fell)

Her limbs
like infinite rivers
tangled the landscape
of his endless longing

~

In the hot tea the imprint of your effervescent lips.

~

Into her arms I fell
as rivers tumbling to the sea,
and in my descent
I reached the height of being,
in my falling I rose
higher than the sky.

~

I remember you
the way a seed
fallen into the earth
remembers spring.
A knowing so deep
blossoming at the touch
of a single drop of water.

~

The fragrance of her silence I gather into a poem made of light.

~

The scriptures of her skin –
in his touch a poem unfolding
endless rays of light.

~

She who beats deeper in me than the pulsings of my own heart; who soaks me more wholly than the quiverings of my own blood.

~

Photo by Michael Färber

In the hollow
of her collarbones
I wept my poems,
at dawn they flew
into the puddle of the blue sky,
white birds singing
eternal love.