Free Verse # 375 (my poem, what has it become?)

Night
poses her hands
on my shoulders
like a forgotten lover
who wants the world to burn
with desire for her kiss,
so I burn and kiss her
with the lips of poetry.

~

My poem is a clock
that doesn’t tick;
my poem is a silent clock
always pointing towards her moon;
my poem is a clock
ticking in her womb.

~

His touch dilutes the moon
in the silk of her skin;
she walks and the night
around her trembles,
his waters rising
to wash her feet.

~

The autumn rain falls,
Under the brown leaves
Fireflies awaken,
The fires of longing
Burning in their wings
As they flutter and lead us
In the forest deep
To the beginning of all things,
To a heartbeat in our chest
Pulsing with spring.

~

My poem…
a flower poised
amid her thighs.

~

Today on my birthday
What do I wish for ?
What do I wish for?
That I always have
A jasmine flower
To tuck in your hair
Beloved poetry.

~

This poem inside of me
Will not let me sleep,
With the burning lips of the night
It wants to touch you.

~

Like an eyeless candle
Burning in the night
Without you in my heart
My eyes cannot sleep

~

Soaked in dew
the parched earth sighs at dawn,
its scent wafting to my bed
and caressing my lips
with the warmth of her name.

~

My poem,
what has it become?
A garland of stars
dripping from her dark hair,
in the candle of her eyes
a moth burning.

Conquering Death

What is eternity?—is it not this:
That I am alive, have lived, and death’s thumb
Will erase not one line that I have writ
Nor his nothingness wipe out my imprint.

I existed, I exist—this echo
Like thunder will ripple and roll through seas
Of life and death will never untangle
All the widening ripples of the I.

To have been once, to have been forever
So summon your life in her wild thunder
And sear your lifeline in blood and fire
On pages that never will fall to dust.

Wandering Thought # 41

The wine only becomes wine in dark cellars, my friend. When a darkness sets in, welcome it, show it the way out by using it, by putting it into action; use it as a motive and motivation, and if you cannot see the shore or where it is your going, then just use its dark ferment and awesome power just to keep going. Use it in a poem, or jog it out, or let it be the edge of your brush pouring color on a canvas, or let it be your lips spilling out the most intimate things to your lover, even they don’t make sense, even if you don’t know exactly what it is you’re saying. When a darkness sets in, welcome it, embrace it, and after a while you’ll begin to understand what a blessing a darkness is, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll begin to befriend and miss it.

Wandering Thought #40

After reaching his peak in orgasm a man will feel either one of two things: he will be repulsed by himself, the world, and his lover (in case he wasn’t alone), he will feel himself withdrawing from what he just experienced and by effect withdrawing from his world and lover and will hate himself and the world for it. This, by far, is the most widespread reaction, and this reaction is usually kept at bay and hidden, rationalized and left without recognition as men waft themselves out of the moment in one way or another. The other reaction which is much rarer is one where a man will feel at rest and at ease in himself, in his partner, in the world and in what just happened. He will feel that he actually gave something, that something rose out of his soul and flowed outward unifying him in the most ecstatic and happy way with his lover and world. He will feel an openness in his soul. Alas, so much, oh so much is required of us men in order to be able to hold ourselves and arrive at this moment.

Free Verse # 374 (alone in my fortress)

Alone in my fortress
of tea and poetry,
a trail disappearing
amid worded trees,
lost inside the pages
of books and memory.

~

She is there for a moment,
a verse of poetry,
a wandering firefly
vanishing in the moon.
She is there for a moment
but then she disappears,
the moon remains
and the heart wonders.

~

Bravely she carried her heart
like an altar burning with strange fires
where only the purest poetry
can be given for a sacrifice.

~

Silent long enough
the word will speak,
poetry will come.

~

tumblr_of1tz52e8t1rxx7cjo1_500
Artist unknown

Autumn’s red leaf…
his seed in her
a nimbus moon

~

batroun-october-2016
Old streets of Batroun, October 2016. My photo.

Wandering old streets…
the footsteps of those long gone
falling like dew.

~

batroun-october-2016_1
Batroun, The Phoenician Wall, October 2016. My photo.

The sun has set,
through the waves of the night
I sift
searching for a curl
of your voice
to tuck against my heart,
a spark from your eyes
to light a candle
in the darkness of my soul.

~

I live off the solitude
of poetry,
a hermit
wandering the hillsides
collecting simple flowers
to plant in her hair.

~

Her navel, the birthplace of the moon.

~

This night
poses her hands
on my shoulders
like a forgotten lover
who wants the world to burn
with desire for her kiss,
so I burn and kiss her
with the lips of poetry.

Letter, October 16, 2016

What is my heart?—A garden where each flower whispers your name. O beloved, my heart is garden drunk with your name. And what the flowers whisper like a prayer charged with incense fills to overflow the sacred cup of dawn. My heart is no longer a reliable mirror to hold up against the world and behold its face, for it is now fashioned with the fires of your name. So my heart sees you everywhere, in each nook and corner, into the widest sky infuses your presence. Through the hidden door you have come into my life and have swept me out into a place without roof and walls. And now, as autumn sets in and as the leaves begin to fall, as the lesson of transience and ephemerality is given once more, your love carves a deeper truth in me, and gives me back to the world as a man born to live the ways of your love.

Free Verse # 373 (the street and its people)

My whole life is a letter for you written in a language only love can understand.

~

By the candlelight
I loved to read her poems
and gaze, every now and then,
into her eyes,
at the way the flame flickered
and danced upon
the page of her face,
the poem of my life.

~

With the patience
of the river
dissolving rocks
and carrying them to the sea
my touch will have her skin
dissolved in poetry.

~

tumblr_mw3qvnotph1rdceqho1_500
Photographer unknown

Her warming flow of wine
in the early morning chill,
the areolas of her breasts
flowering starlike
amid my thirsty lips.

~

Return to me,
I am all windows
silently waiting,
my soul
at each windowsill
a poem burning,
into the night calling,
calling you home.

~

The deeper blue
of the autumn sea,
the silent dawns
calmer still,
the earth
caressed by the rain
smells of your skin.

~

lovers-street-kiss
Photographer unknown

The street and its people
fell away from them,
a world warped by their gravity,
the magnetism of their kiss,
their deep immersion
in the moment’s poetry.

~

The garden tree,
how does it know
when summer turns to autumn,
winter to spring?
In the same way,
deep,
unfathomable,
this knowledge of you
seeps under my skin,
moves in my soul.

~

Take me by the hand
and lead me down
to the willow by the river
where my dreams since childhood
flowed with the water
and dissolved in her sea.

~

You who lives in the heart of me,
you are the crossroad of everything,
the beginning and end of everything.

~

She wears glasses
too big for her face,
and smiles as though
the world is too small to fit
behind her small dark eyes.

From the Soul of the Philosopher and Poet

What are you searching for?
For a reason, for a way to believe,
For a ruse to trick reason
And reach the realm of faith and certainty
While remaining under his good grace.

What are you willing to pay?
I am willing to sacrifice reason itself,
Only reason and my sense of honesty
Do not allow this weakness and betrayal to prevail,
So I remain caught in the middle,
Cut in half in no man’s land,
And as a result I feel myself
Poor, impoverished, and lacking a center,
As if empty or hollow,
Glancing back and unable to go back,
Looking high but unable to fly upwards,
So I pay my life and time as a result
And linger begging for a crumb of bread,
I whose inheritance and right
Is the banquet of heaven itself.

We Exchanged Poems for Rings

We exchanged poems for rings
With words not penned by our fingers
But burned into each other’s souls
By our breaths as we kissed.

We sealed our fate with poems
Hushed between our merged lips
And the fervent ink became the blood
Spilling on the unfolding sheets of our lives.

With poems we spoke our silent vows
As our pressed lips spoke eternity
In a volume so great our chests tore
And our ribs danced and joined in bliss.

Thinking of You

I think of you
and somewhere in my soul
a poem lifts its wings
and fans the holy fire inside;
I think of you
and somewhere a key turns
unlocking the door
and making my heart rush
with the taste of freedom;
I think of you
and thought itself
breaks from within
and twirls around itself
like a broken compass
no longer knowing
which way is which;
I think of you
and the sound of laughter
flutters over the field,
with a hand of light
caresses the shafts of wheat
and the more distant hills,
and, further on, the great openness
of the ocean and sky;
I think of you
only to discover bit by bit
and over many years
that, in truth, it is you
who is thinking me,
growing me out of you
like vegetation grows
or like waters flow
from the womb of the earth;
I think of you
and all thought burns out,
yet thinking becomes beautiful
under the gaze of you.

Wandering Thought # 39

It takes more to giving than giving in to the initial impulse of pity. If a man is hungry, instead of giving him food, teach him how to farm, or how to fend for himself. That will be more difficult to achieve than the easy gesture of giving him something of which you have in excess, and which aim is ultimately your own self-indulgence, indulging your own pity. And the opposite to this is true as well: instead of going the hard way, of learning how to fend for himself and controlling his future, a hungry or poor man is wont to stir the imagination and conscience of another into giving him what he needs.

Free Verse # 372 (the summer of my hopes)

Wherever I am
I am with you,
your hand over my heart,
my fingers in your hair,
our breaths a shawl
caressing the earth,
opening her to love.

~

autumn-apple
Photographer unknown

Red and luscious
it hangs from your bough,
the last of my poems,
the summer of my hopes.

~

Ton parfum
le pain quotidien
de tous les poètes

~

We unfold through connections…
the jasmine flower with the moon breeze,
my poem with your eyes.

~

Poem by poem
I strip through the veils
of desire,
then your voice
like a tender breeze
sweeps into my heart
and I find myself centered
in the radiance of your soul.

~

Evening,
in the wind’s hollow neck
I place my call,
at dawn it splashes
in waves over your skin.

~

For a gift
bring me a teacup
with your breath
steeped into its lips
so I could taste you
each time I sip my tea
and fill with your poetry

~

I am an old way lover,
I will keep my distance
and write you letters,
distill my heart into words
brimming with the flower
of poetry.

~

Through the window
of her absence
I gaze at the world
and the world becomes rain
the world becomes fire
the world becomes
an unbearable sea of ache.

~

The autumn moon
stains my being
and the timeless runes
become visible,
shape upon shape,
fire within fire,
the face of you.

~

Take me back to the fields
where light abounds,
where dawn is a whisper
hissed by your eyes.