You, Beloved

who lives inside of me
though I keep looking for you
in the outer world;
whose fire immolates my heart
without completely killing it,
threading it, instead,
thin and empty
like the rose of the sky;
who loved me
before I had a name,
before my parents bore me;
who will subsume my being
as I surrender my breath and die;
you, beloved,
crushing me with longing
and making sure
that I won’t survive
unless I become a thread
in the book of love.


Free Verse # 423 (reading my books, drinking my tea, watering my plants)

Every night
silence enters my heart
without permission
and fills me with you;
by dawn I am all soaked
in the fragrance of your skin,
the jasmine of your hair,
the longing to taste
the ripe figs of your breasts,
the moon on your lips.


I am a wanderer
and you are my journey;
I am a fallen leaf
and my resting place is along
the curves of your road.


as before,
alone and naked
in the arms
of lady poetry.


Snow in the garden,
people walking
with a little less darkness
inside of them,
the ice shudders
on the running creek
that carries still
fallen leaves of autumn.


Every night
silence enters my heart
and I breathe you in,
and I breathe you out,
and I feel you inside of me
a voice of light widening
in ripples that go beyond
the last ring of stars.


Reading my books,
drinking my tea,
watering my plants,
the years flow by
and my poem grows
pressed against
your slender neck.

I want to touch her

I want to touch her
with the reverence of a candle
for the stillness of the night,
with the awe of a saint
uttering the name of God,
with the longing of a birdsong
for the first light of dawn.

I want to touch her
with the ache for the rain
after a long season of drought,
with the sigh of a breaking bud
anticipating the air and light,
with the joy of burning incense
as it rises to the sky.

I want to touch her
as an oak seed taking root
on the mountain high,
as a stream of thawing snow
from cliff to cliff runs,
with the red lips of a poem
writing the history of mankind.

I want to touch her
like eternity blossoms
in the present moment,
like the breath of the seasons turns
with the endless wheel of time,
I want to touch her
and for this touch to be
my breath and life.

La femme que j’aime n’existe pas

La femme que j’aime n’existe pas
et pourtant je ne peux abandonner
ma recherche pour elle ;
et ça, cette recherche,
ce pèlerinage infini
qui va comme un cercle
tournant et tournant
au milieu du cœur de l’amour –
cette brulure, ce délire,
cette espérance futile mais inépuisable –
c’est le poème –
l’offrande de mon âme
dans le feu de son autel.

Du poème je suis…

Du poème
je suis ce qui lutte
à te toucher,
cette lumière
qui approfondit sa pureté
dans son désir
à fleurir dans ta peau ;
du poème
je suis ce silence
qui écoute
ton cœur battre
dans la chair du monde,
je suis cette voix
qui s’est perdue dans le vent
il y a des siècles
et qui cherche à jamais
à se dissoudre
dans l’intime de ton souffle.

Du poème
je suis cette attente
qui déchire mon cœur
et le remplit du silence
de ta voix.