Letter, October 05, 2019

Lived simply, in deep attention and presence, a life can be so full that its echo reverberates to the stillness of the stars — the garden’s dust on my shoes, a good book, a cup of aged wine, and your face, beloved, hovering around all things like a cloud, their inner light, their intimate aura. I write to you today as the sun sets over another autumn day, as the wind withers away the leaves and grass leaving nature and my thoughts bared down to their essence. Time is moving and life is trickling away, yet a deeper stillness is settling in my heart. It feels to me as though, if I lift my hand, I could almost touch your face; as though the warmth of your breath is mingled with mine. This silence is a prayer. I listen to the wind in the yellowing leaves. I write another poem penned with the ink of your love.


Haiku # 648

His words in her ears…
Seashells divulging
the secret of the sea
A la table du poète
devant l’encrier
songe le vieux papier
Ses cheveux noirs
maison aux eaux coulants
au fond de la terre
Matin brisé
par la brume…
Le souffle de la mer
A l’abri du silence
la chandelle fane
lentement la nuit
Peignant la nuit
le noir
de ses cheveux.
Notre amour
dans dix milles ans…
Etoile sur la mer
Eight to five job…
the bird at my window
teasing with his smile
Haiku pond
the shadow of a bird
passing at dusk
Fallen in love…
The changed color
of her eyes

Free Verse # 440 (one day)

Her eyes were silent
like a book of poems
the moon read
to the earth at dawn


To lover her
is to see them
in her eyes
long before
they unfold
on paper;
the paintings
as they are birthed
in the fire of her heart.


One day I long
to tell you that I love you
in the simplest of ways,
not with words
but with silence,
in the shiver of wind between us,
as my eyes sink into yours
and our souls merge
finding in us a single ocean
to house our dance
with infinite grace.


With my hand on her hip
I love to feel it,
the power of life
as it surges from her belly;
in the silence, alone,
remembering her eyes
I love to feel it,
the ocean of love
rushing from my heart.


As the sun sets
I am sitting here
sipping tea and waiting
for your voice
to rain down on me
from the passing clouds


هي تصعد في دمي كدوار البحر
كملاك يسبح في الغمام
كشعلة محترقة في خشب
ينضح بالنبيذ

Free Verse # 439 (the salt of its white years)

All flowers bloom
propelled by a dream:
that one day
they will be plucked
to adorn
the curls of her hair.


In her heart
she was looking
for a piercing gaze
that would open her
to eternity,
that would deliver her
to the altar of God.


In the heart
of my darkness
I found a light,
when I listened
it uttered
the syllables of your name.


She lives in me as the sea –
still at its heart,
endless in its expanse
ebbing and flowing,
rushing and foaming
for all eternity.


From within this abyss
of space and time
I sing to her,
and this song
is my healing grace.


From behind I gaze
at her bare shoulders
and slender neck,
this delicate flower
with a head stooped
full of heady nectars,
and my fingers ache to dance
and my lips ache to taste,
reveling in a woman
whose light fills my heart
with the joy of poetry.


Her eyes
a window to a mystery
I long to unravel
day after day
night after night


With every poem
I am learning to touch you
in a different way,
in a new way,
but always
like a wave aching
to unfold in your heart.
the choreography of my verses
caressing your skin
in their longing to experience
the sanctity of your heart.


By the shore she stood
waiting for him,
listening to his voice
coming through the mists
and wetting her cheeks,
her fingers yearning
to caress his beard
and raise to her lips
the salt of its white years.

On the Road of my Life

In the middle of my life
I look back, I look forward,
and I find that nothing matters
except this wave of love
that carried me in its surge,
propelling me from shore to shore,
tearing me away from people and places
to root me in ever brighter realms
and deeper, more nourishing grounds.

Nothing matters but this love
in the here and now,
this smile and this tear,
this dash of salt
in the open wound
that mystics call longing,
that lovers call by a name or a face,
and this musical note
that for ages drifted
over wave and wind
now coming to rest
on the table, over my hand ,
caressing me with the tenderness
of the woman I have never known
but always loved.

In this moment
that is ever fleeting
nothing matters but this love,
take it or leave it
it will live through you
until you are nothing more
than a handful of dust
blowing in the wind.

When Sadness Comes

When sadness comes
sit with her, invite her over
to a cup of tea or coffee,
or maybe just a little wine,
resist your urge to escape from her
by drowning her in some frantic activity,
and rather hold her gently
like you would your beloved wife,
drown in her eyes
all your sorrows, fears and anxieties,
tell her what she already knows,
your insomnias and terrors
before a life devoid of affection, meaning or completion.

When sadness comes
sit with her, though she thumps
against your chest
like a wild horse being tamed,
gather up your strength and tell her
all that the harsh tides of life
have washed up inside your heart,
or just sit with her, in silence,
reading a book or listening
to a bird singing happy and unaware.

When sadness comes
smile back to her, sadly,
and offer her the dark rose
of that void pulsing in your chest,
and watch her take it, gladly,
placing it delicately
in her wildly waving hair.

When sadness comes
welcome her, that lifelong friend
loyal to a fold and intimate and tender,
and know that all she asks of you
is for you to tame her
so that one day she may begin to tell you
all the reasons for which
she is your promise of love.