Free Verse # 407 (better than poetry)

Love came bearing
the gift of the moment,
the gaze of eternity
burning in her eyes.

~

In the timber of her voice
a candle burned,
its flickering light painting
the face of the night.

~

I am waiting for you
on the edge of the night,
my heart a candle stirred
by the silence of its light.

~

The words I write,
wisps of fire etched
into her fragrant breath
as it escapes her lips,
wisps of fire etching
the fragrance of her breath
into the moving skin of the world.

~

A brook running
amid her curves,
the waves of the sea
lapping her white shores,
I could touch her for all my life
and it will never be enough.

~

Better than poetry
we shared the silence
the sky makes at dawn,
and our hearts were filled
with a single prayer falling
from the radiant face of God.

Free Verse # 406 (Dieu peignant le monde)

It’s been a thousand years
since you slept in my bed,
yet, each dawn I wake
with my head drowning
in the garden of your hair
still blooming on my pillow.

~

I persist by the grace of poetry.

~

In vain I searched for you until
in my heart I heard your voice saying,
Here!
Now, wherever I look I find you,
the breath living in me
and beating closer
than my own life and death.

~

With tender feet
you walked into my poem,
my words aglow
with the fragrance of your skin
spoke a fire
ancient as the world,
quivered as dewdrops
from their lips came pouring
onto the parched lips
of the world.

~

Dieu
peignant le monde
a trempé sa plume
dans l’encrier de son corps.

~

God
painting the world
dipped his brush
in the inkwell of her body.

Lettre, Juin 18, 2017

Je suis un flâneur dans le corps de la femme unique. S’il y a de l’herbe, des déserts, des îles, des montagnes, des forêts, des cités, des histoires, des galaxies, et des immensités, c’est toujours dans son corps, et voilà la passion secrète qui est l’élan vitale de mon esprit, ma vie, et mon humble poème.

Ma conscience du monde c’est monde en tant que femme, corps et cœur de femme, l’infini et l’éternel de ses entrailles, de son essence, l’océan qu’elle est, et qui est le défi pour l’homme et le marin en moi. La femme ne peut jamais être conquis, acquis, elle effleure seulement dans l’acte de danser avec elle, lui écrire des poèmes, voyageant ses horizons océanique avec ma virile conscience et passion. Une femme n’a pas de fin. Sa présence brûle comme l’encens dans le cœur de Dieu. Et alors, je la poursuis, je l’aime jusqu’à la mort, au-delà de toute mort.

Free Verse # 405 (captive of her silence)

With my fingers in her hair
gnawing like roots
we sat inside a longing
crushed by the weight
of an eternity of waiting

~

He felt the thunder
roaring in her silence,
rocking against the shore,
and there he sat,
her tide taking away
his baggage,
washing away his memories.

~

My song is a captive of her silence, the radiance of her heart.

~

When I write
I feel it,
the press of her lips
slowly inching,
succulent on my fingertips,
trembling as they sip
the ink from my heart.

~

The sigh of the flowers
at dawn,
their fragrant breaths
a cloud burning
with an ache
to soak into the fullness
of her lips.

Wandering Thought # 49

Is the tree less surrendered to love for rising towards the sky and asserting itself, its own height and elevation? Is it less in unity and oneness for affirming itself, its own identity and uniqueness? For wanting to rise higher than its surroundings? For wanting to look down on its surroundings, and high towards the sky? Is it not a betrayal of its duty to its oneness if it refuses to assert its own difference, its own necessarily partial view of the sky towards which it rises? — Replace the tree with man and you will find much of modern spirituality vanishing with a whiff of bad breath, vanishing to reveal itself as a sewer, and one giving discharge to…