Haiku # 474

This wandering world…
through the parting clouds
the hermit moon

~

Dans les plis de sa peau
le grain d’encens brule…
poésie

~

Midlife…
deep in the woods
the hermit’s thatch calling

~

What have I to offer?—
years of silence,
the face of the moon.

~

Between life and death
the falling rain
keeps falling

~

My best lines
read by no one…
dust in the wind

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Letter, April 30, 2017

I feel the press of your breasts and soft skin around me, everywhere, coaxing me to flower into you the erection of my body, the life of my poetry. Your light comes in flashes of intuition, falling upon my face as through the sunlit openings of an orchard, and I heed with the attentiveness of my whole body, the animal soul in me. Your dew falls like an erotic enchantment and a buoyancy comes like a fountain rising from the depth of my soul; suddenly I find myself harnessed in shafts of wheat upon the altar of your body, ready to burn, ready to become dough and bread, ready to feed upon the milk of your breasts and the honey of your skin. Your body is the world, the element I am living in, moving through, and this eros, this tension between us mercilessly opens me and challenges me to become in the thrust the man that I am. So I take you, as I give myself to you, as through you I slingshot myself into the sky of eternity.

Woman of silk and fire, woman of milk and honey suckling my wildest desire.

Free Verse # 403 (the fervency of my longing)

His poetry
veiled her eyes
and poured into her heart,
back arched and hurled deep
into the sky of orgasm
he fired the chakra of her belly,
the sun of life.

Radiance embodied
she then moved,
forming and transforming
everything around her,
a world reshaped
in the image of love.

~

Amid the folds
of her skin
his rough beard
pricking
as his lips,
famished,
move in circles
grazing her flower
and melting her
into a seething moan
bursting with the ink
of his poetry.

~

I want to kiss you
as on the first day
when spring flowered
in the bosom of life,
when birds learned to sing.

~

I am a cloud roaming
the meadows of your silence.

~

My poem…
the light of a candle
slowly gathering
in the silence of her heart.

~

If I cannot cry
let these words be my tears
pooling in your cup
the fervency of my longing

~

When I am down
I breathe in and out
as deeply and widely as I can,
centering myself
in the clarity of her light,
the intuition of eternity.

~

Even when old I wish to die in the youth of poetry.

Wandering Thought # 46

Though it often hides itself behind a veil of humanism, it is the mark of a tortured soul, this need to identify with every suffering and struggling cause. Through this identification it prolongs its own torture, finding new means to discharge its weariness; and where new causes cannot be found new causes must be invented, lashes of evil imagined here and there, imagined villains that must be vanquished. The suffering soul only betrays itself with the vehemency with which it wishes to expunge all suffering.