Free Verse # 418 (my poem comes nearest to her)

Her fragrance
is a knife
held to my neck,
however I move
I am gone…

~

Her silence weakened me
and I hated it until I learned
it was the only force capable
of revealing me to my bones,
shaking open my truth
on the altar of the world.

~

Let us kiss
until nothing of us remains
except the light
of the first star

~

Rain falling at dawn,
I am awake
writing shattered notes
to an unknown lover

~

I am waiting for you
on the other side of silence,
covered in dew
and holding out
the scarlet fire of my heart.

~

Aux moments silencieux
je retrouve mon destin,
fleur couleur du vent,
fraicheur de l’aube,
les yeux de mon bien-aimée
lumière du monde.

~

My poem is a painting
in which her soul is blushing;
my poem is an attempt
to touch her light
with shivering fingers
and an aching soul;
my poem comes nearest to her
when it is silent.

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Free Verse # 417 (the focal point of her heart)

I am searching for you
like a jasmine flower looks
for her lost fragrance
in the nooks of the evening sky

~

To live every day
as though it were a poem
inked with the fire
of your love

~

I wandered too deep
into the breath of God;
now I am a flower
wafting on the wind,
in the dewdrop I am
the face of the sky.

~

Completely alone,
invisible to the world’s eye,
born and reborn,
born into full color
from within the eye of love.

~

Her light is the veil
that hides her
in the act of revelation;
so I am condemned
to chase her
in the luminosity of things
ever longing for her core.

~

She smiled once
and it did not matter
if darkness was
the ultimate reality;
she smiled once
and darkness was the mesh
carrying her light
to the end of space and time.

~

Long after her form
vanishes from my mind
her light will linger
in my heart

~

Skin on skin,
the soft warmth of her body
pressing against mine,
engulfing me
in the torrent of her fragrance,
bending time and space
in the focal point of her heart.

~

She is not a body
but a river drowning me
and tugging me down
and deeper down
into the ocean of eternity.

She is the fragrance of the sky.

Free Verse # 415 (in the layers of poetry)

Her body is the place I come to when I long to remember, when I long to forget. Her body is the image at its fountainhead — the soul embodied.

~

The image of her hands
comes at night,
the burning wings
of a fluttering moth,
a candle’s breath
dreaming.

~

Sedimented
in the layers of poetry
the moonlight that once shun
on the shore as we kissed,
the frail scent of a basil
kissing your cheek at dawn.

~

Lovemaking is not unlike breadmaking, and when the bread rises there you have it.

~

The death
growing inside of me
shall one day blossom
and waft me like a sigh
over the sea of eternity

~

A te toucher je frissonne
comme les débuts du printemps,
comme un feu qui prend souffle
de l’intime corps de l’amour.

~

Silence descends
like a spring-shower;
in the openness I listen
to the voice of the One.

~

I’m disappearing in you again
like the tolling sound of a bell
in the fog of memories

~

Autumn night reading…
the birdsongs I follow
through the branches of words
always somehow lead
to a clearing in the forest
where I am one with you

Free Verse # 414 (listening intently)

One day
at the rising of the dawn
I will listen to the prayer
God planted in my heart
before I was born

~

Full of my own self
I await your touch
to break me open
into a more, a beyond,
an uncontainable fountain
of overflowing love,
a hymn flowing
into the depth of the sky.

~

Besieged by the luminous hover
of the cloud of loneliness,
I long to know the warmth
of one human heart,
to feel its presence
breathing in my life.

~

An old man
in a young man’s body
watching life painting
with the brush of death.

~

My heart is a wounded place
that wounded birds seek
to pass through its fissures
and die into the sky

~

In the light of dawn
your voice comes
on wings of light
on wings of memory
and your breath
weaves the stillness
into a crown of poetry

~

Listening intently to the music interweaving the waters of their souls.

Lovers Listening
Unknown Artist, Somewhere in France

Writing

Writing is an upstream hike,
following the river into its birthwomb,
but neither is the longing quelled
nor the birthwomb found,
and so the ache continues,
flourishing in the heart
like silence caught in a sea of fog,
like the billowing kiss of the infinite sky.

Of writing I speak as a Sufi and a lover; writing as the gateway of love.

Free Verse # 413 (the diary of my travels)

My life — letters written to an imaginary lover, a lover who never comes, who is always here.

~

On the poem’s wings I rise to the clarity of her eyes.

~

My poems are the diary of my travels through the regions of her soul — a collection of leaves, flowers, teas, honeys,

~

Nowhere to go to,
no one to find,
this love I want
is in my heart.

~

Dans mon poème
elle s’est venue
chercher son ombre
qui s’est enfuit
dans l’abime des ténèbres

~

The winds of longing
racing in my chest
where the blooming flowers
sigh out your name

~

Your love touches me
and though a dewdrop I feel
the ocean in my heart

~

Her moan rising shapeless
over the sea of dawn,
kissing the sky and soaking
the earth in pebbled dew

~

Starbreath,
the sigh of a candle,
I am travelling inside of you,
into your night,
your silence,
the expanse of that world
spinning behind your eyes.

~

Everywhere I go
I hear you,
a music
older than time
strumming the waves
of my soul.