Evoking the Beloved

My poem
tries to evoke her,
but silence cannot fit
in the mouth of the sky.

Thus my inked birds
go fluttering about senseless
like embers escaping
a raging fire,
their burning wings searing
the face of the air.

My inked birds
flutter about senseless
but who deciphers their song
as it rains over the earth?

A learned mystic once said
that the beloved is too great
for this world to contain
so existence tears at its seams
and her waters spill
soaking up this world
and all others,
becoming in all things
their inner vibrancy and life.

My poem
tries to evoke her,
but then my heart swells so wide
I find my pen leaving silence
to ink the last line.

Free Verse # 350 (shipwrecked amid her thighs)

At night I touch my neck,
feel the nook where your fingers
carved themselves a nest
and a poem of unbearable warmth
suddenly fills my chest,
bursts to flame like a candle
with a tender caress lighting
an immemorial past.

~

His words
kissing her ears,
seashells divulging
the secret of the sea.

~

Poète – c’est celui qui écoute le monde exister avant l’aube de bruit et voix, dans la nuit du cœur-soleil.

~

Sa voix s’étendait
sans limite,
un silence intime
coulant du ciel.

~

In the shadow
of our kiss
the bloom
of silence

~

Even as I die
your shining beauty
full moon in the sky

~

In the forest
we leave the dead
where they fall be,
and watch them in spring
become sighing flowers
and wild birds that sing.

~

Her body
a forest of poetry
pronounced sacred
even before divinity,
into the clear obscure
of her spaces
poets wander
and are lost
unto eternity.

~

The poem I left at night
shipwrecked amid her thighs
at dawn flutters anew
and flows from her eyes

~

Her kiss didn’t come
in a single burst,
like stars in the nightsky
it came strewn
all over my life,
over the course
of a lifetime.

~

His fingers
course her skin,
each trail
a furrow of wine and fire
sinking to her veins,
in the soil of her flesh
growing
the essence of poetry.