Free Verse # 388 (itinerant heart)

Winter moon
in the aching window…
you, my insomnia,
combing my hair,
your breath
in the pathless night
weaving all my ways,
your fragrance
a candle keeping vigil
in the sinews of my veins.

~

Your poem
a voracious thing
in the hollow
of the moonless night
biting at my skin,
veins deep spewing
the melody of its blood,
its ferocious ink.

~

Anise and incense…
the oars of your breath
splashing in my skin

~

Itinerant heart selling tea
In a breath of poetry

~

Night falls –
her blood and mine
one inkwell,
all the poets of the world
dipping their pen
into our hearts and writing
the holy name of love.

~

Night falls –
the silence
a skin of dew lacing
our tangled bodies,
merging in a soft fusion
the seams of our skin,
our joined breath
poetry…

~

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Her body she offers,
a sea to be crafted
by the ink of his fire,
exalted on the altar
of lust and poetry.

Wandering Thought # 44

Change sets in and our first reaction is one of resistance; we fear the pull into the unknown, and the way it forcefully pushes itself into our lives without care for our feelings. So we resist, yet simultaneously and reluctantly react, as we must, since change will not disappear simply because we wish it. Yet down the river and as its waters pull us further and further from the shore where we felt safe, we notice how we are no longer looking back; we have accustomed ourselves now to the motion, the waterfalls, and the eddies of the water, have grown perhaps the suitable set of muscles to swim these particular curves, and are now coming to a new shore we were not previously aware of its existence. Our resistance ceases, and our fear drops away. The water throws us upon this new shore, and, looking back, we feel a subtle gratefulness in our hearts as we become aware of just what it is we gained by being thus hurled out of our safety into an unknown and something not common to us. Surely, we have gained a new set of skills we previously lacked, skills we are now eager to practice and show off and perform, skills enabling a better grasp upon our life, a better navigation through life. We also laugh at our resistance, and deem it a bit infantile from our part, that we resist precisely where we should embrace and be daring. We understand that change will come again, and that as it comes we will still fall upon our age old emotional mechanism and resist; but, we hope, time after time our resistance will lessen as in contrast our sense of daring will gain the upper hand; we hope that, one day, we will become seafarers and daredevils, daring the widest ocean and the most unsettling experience to come our way.

Obituaries

Obituaries,
instantly present
when a person dies;
yet true obituaries
are written long after
in the hearts and minds
of those whose life
was intimately shared,
and they are not called
obituaries then,
they are known
by a hundred other names,
enumerated
by a hundred other facts,
they are the shared moments
and their intimate depths
growing in the seedbed of life,
they are a hand still moving with ours,
and a heart beating in our own,
loving as we love,
crying as we cry,
they are the imagined togetherness
still breathing in and breathing out
as we carry upon our shoulders
the weight and the promise
and pledge in our daily bread
the laughter and the tears
of all that brought us together
and the death that made us part,
continuing our journey,
witnessing with our eyes and theirs
right into our own demise.

Free Verse # 387 (sewing her skin to the crest of dawn)

Awake all night
sewing her skin
to the crest of dawn;
daybreak,
the perfume of her light
a tidal wave
in endless ripples
washing
the face of the world.

~

Your perfume
drifting on the wind
entraps my poem;
your perfume
is a world
enclosing my poem,
its sky opening
to the other side.

~

How old is it,
your perfume
on my pillow
this winter morning?

When did the bees first fly
from flower to flower
gathering the honey
of your name?

~

Moment vêtu
de la soif
de nos lèvres,
sa mèche brulante
avec le feu
de nos yeux
croisés,
désir solaire
de deux corps
englouties
dans une goutte
de poésie.

~

You laid on the bed
and I saw the sea
elongated,
denuding itself slowly
wave after frothing wave,
all the horizons smothered
in the salt of her kiss.

~

Dawn comes
sauntering
with your skirt
for skin,
the red
of its billow
in the summer wind
lifting
to cover the world
with…

~

Happened in the night
while thinking of you,
my heart drowned
and couldn’t pull through.

~

Your breath
in the cold night,
vapor on the outside
on my windows;
I open to let you in
but the dark alone enters
to share my bed,
nest in my heart.

~

My poem…
the breath of a candle
trembling on the walls
inside her ribs;
moon-birds at night
rising from her skin,
falling from her hair.

~

Rain at dawn…
your breath
a candle burning
in a corner in my heart;
your face
a fountain of light
pouring
from inside of me.

~

Tombe la pluie…
mon cœur
un poème brulant
dans la chandelle
de ses yeux.

~

The light of the moon
goes on shining
untouchable like destiny,
the breathless dew
from its white sinews falling,
a moment, a thousand years.

~

I grew up
inhaling your skin,
in the breath of tea,
in dawn’s mist,
in the pages of books,
in strangers’ smiles,
in poetry’s hair,
in silence,
in all of life.