Free Verse # 435 (I dreamed of touching her)

My photograph. Tannourine Cedar Trees Reserve, January 2019

Like freshly fallen snow,
its immaculate whiteness
keeping track
of the slightest movement
of animals, trees, and wind,
her skin holds
the traces of my words
as they drip from my pen,
as they stir in my soul.

~

Ma mémoire de toi
est comme l’eau
qui coule toujours
dans le berceau
du rêve océanique
de ta chair

~

For miles and miles
I drove through the night
to find her lying naked
by the chimney
her shimmering skin aching
for a drop of poetry

~

Her perfume,
though softer
than the moon’s light
falling through the clouds,
its billows carry me
to shores unknown
to mankind.

~

I dreamed
of touching her
silently
slowly
completely
so that my touch
would fill her
like the light
gently pours
to fill the sky at dawn

~

Your reply
to the letter
I sent you years ago –
at dawn
a bird singing
on my windowsill.

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Free Verse # 434 (she is all the lights)

In your touch
I make transactions
with beauty,
selling each moment
for a veil of your light,
feeling the white
of your perception
shine from my soul.

~

My poetry,
its endless brushstrokes
paint the features
of my face;
look at it,
it has no eyes
but only a silence
with which to gaze
upon the world.

~

When I write
I imagine my fingers
touching her face
the way the moth hovers
around the candle-light,
I feel my hands
dipped in her skin
like oars rowing
in a starlit sea of poetry.

~

Looking at her
the poem tries
with burnings fingers
to describe her beauty,
but then it falls down,
speechless.

~

She is all the lights the city needs.

~

My heart
I feel it connected to yours
by a hidden string,
like night to the day,
like the sky to the earth
and to the rolling sea of stars.

Free Verse # 433 (this moment is but a dream, vanishing)

In my love for you
the profanity of my spirit
once more
touched the hem
of God’s soul

~

This moment
is but a dream,
vanishing;
in the mirror
of its smoke
I behold your face,
ever dancing in the wind,
ever warm with grace.

~

Smoke and mirrors,
in this world
I only care to polish
the image of your face.

~

You wander through me
unchanged for eternities
like the ray of light
that shined from God’s heart
on the dawn
of the very first day

~

The music of your voice
comes back at dawn;
like a dewdrop on the leaf
I sit down and listen.

~

Having her here
sleeping next to me,
in the rhythm of her breath
a window opening
onto an endless sea.

~

Beloved, I only have eyes to see you through the window of my heart.

~

My heart burns for you
with the passion of petals
in a tight bud, unfurling,
with the desire of a seed
in the dark soil
feeling all around it
the heat of spring.

~

I am thinking of your voice
and the way it drifts at dawn,
a ray of warm sunlight
through the dewy cover of fog.

I am thinking of your breath
and the way it fills the sky,
starlight from distant galaxies
like dancing snowflakes falling down.

~

Looking through
the dictionary of the winds
for words to describe her,
I discovered the scent
of the jasmine flower
under the summer moon,
little fires of starlight
wandering the tilting sky
early before the dawn,
the words poets uttered
from a wounded heart,
the heated breaths
exchanged between
the merging lips lovers,
the ineffable presence of things
as they enter
the silence of God.

Free Verse # 431 (a literature of sacred desire)

The moon at dawn,
to look at it I remember
the image of her face,
traveling from age to age
and now coming to wake
in the stillness of my heart.

~

All that ink
flowing along her curves
in rivers,
and I, the only one
able to read its flow;
but reading
is an act of writing,
and as I read
the words catch fire
and burn into her skin,
a literature of sacred desire
bursting
with the flame of poetry.

~

It’s enough
to touch her with my mind
for the cup
from my heart
to overflow

~

Dusk settles;
my breath,
like the silent fall of dew
infiltrates her skin,
gathers at her core.

Between us,
an ineffable dance
of shadow and light,
a poetry greater
than this finite world.

~

From her face
the knowledge of light
came to me,
came to alight like a bird
on the bough of my heart,
inside to make
its burning nest,
weep through my skin
and into the corners of the world
a song of joy and harmony.

Free Verse # 429 (What is the poet?)

What is the poet if not a vampire with a thirst for bitter blood — the fire blood of poetry?

~

My hands move along her skin
like pilgrim birds
with their flight tracing
the eternity of the sky

~

The hidden tangible in her
that with every touch
I aim to invoke,
that I desire to caress
with my mere presence,
the depth of my heart,
the penetrative gaze of my soul;
I dampen her and excite her light
as my focus remains, centered,
on the ground of her being,
her core.

~

I wait for you
on the curve of something infinite
where the sea meets the sky,
in my hand
a flowering branch of jasmine
and a poem I wrote long ago
when my heart was still a child’s;
I wait for you,
my heart the burning pages of a poem
dripping with longing for your smile.

~

Entering my room
through the open window
your breath dishevels
the string of my thoughts
and awakens my longing;
the candle stirs
in her vertical burning
and my palms fill
with the rose-petals of your name.

~

With the night
your ghost comes
to torture me,
a gossamer figure
drawn with a soft fading fire
against the starry sky.

A Little Rest and Idleness

A little rest and idleness
and I discover
that I am still the same man,
the one who writes
and longs to write
with the fire of your name
a world of poetry.

Now let each word sink
like a caress into your skin,
let it sleep there
like an exuberant seed
to wake up and find itself transformed
into a lush forest of flowers
and leaves blowing endlessly,
of lovers meeting
under the shadow of the night
to make love deeply and earnestly.

A little rest
and my heart rises back, buoyant,
and wafts mouthful
in the fragrance of your skin,
my feet, those of a pilgrim
wading word after word after word
to vanish in the world of stillness
sounding at the center of your soul.

A little rest and idleness
and your breath, beloved,
comes to cure me,
balm my wounds and nights of ache
with the refreshing touch of dew
born upon the dawn of your lips.

Free Verse # 427 (the only home I know)

My poem
only gives sound
when a wind blows through,
and the sound it gives
is always a whiff
burning with her name.

~

You are not here
and I do not know your name
but it does not matter,
this love is still my captain,
it is the sea itself
and the ship carrying me,
it is this road itself
and it is the journey,
it is the softly burning fire
and the only home I know.

~

This world is a tavern,
your fragrance its wine;
this world is a sky,
your light its crowning star.

~

I long to know her heart;
I long to open her
to the eternity of the sky.

~

In a single poem
a thousand nights
of longing burn
aching for a touch
from your lips –
you, my tormentor,
you, my muse.

~

The poet’s words
bring me back to myself,
and always
inside the words
the light of her face.

~

What if the poem
is an astrolabe
attempting to measure
what cannot be measured —
the beauty of her face?

~

Walking
the distance between us,
its length a poem
lasting all night.

~

A girl I’ve never known
has her name igniting
the fire in my soul