Haiku # 531

With nothing to show
standing at the crossroads
of the autumn of life

~

My life the mesh;
poetry, the burning flame —
praised be this dying.

~

The love I wanted…
in my open palms
the light of the moon

~

Borrowed from silence
the words I wanted
to give to the moon

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Free Verse # 411 (mon poème et mon cœur)

If I touched you with my heart, would you be the poem I’ve been aching to write? – the poem that exhausts my life in a sea of mystery?

~

He touched her and her heart, weeping, was a violin that finally found its soul.

~

My poem and my heart are coextensive: the woman who touches one touches the other.

~

Mon poème et mon cœur sont coextensives: la femme qui touche l’un touchera l’autre.

~

We are all in the end unfinished stories.

~

Un jour, même après ma mort, un papillon anonyme trouvera la fleur secrète qui brule dans mon corps.

~

آخر الطرقات بين
قلبي وقلبها
وردة حمراء تذوي
وورقة خريف
هائمة في الريح

~

Photographer unknown

Clothed by his poem,
every word etched
with the ink of a fire
that burned for ages
on the altar of his heart.

~

Caressant sa peau
avec mon poème
la fleur entre ses jambes
s’en est ouverte
comme une coquille qui m’offrait
l’infini de la mer

Free Verse # 409 (the breath of a candle)

My touch in her skin…
the breath of a candle
whispering to the stars

~

Ce que la nuit étouffe, l’amour rallumera  – instinct du poète.

~

To touch her
with the heart of poetry ;
to touch her
and hear the poem
go silent,
pregnant
with the light of dawn.

~

Love is a state that wants to be secure in its vulnerability.

~

In the silence
I am painting you again,
brush dipped
in the tea breath,
pen in the ink
of a thousand kissing lovers.

~

In the fading light of dusk
as the fog trembled
like a blanket over the forest
a deer came and went swiftly
and my startled heart
found itself again
inside the poetry

~

La soie de sa peau,
le feu de mon encre –
promesse de poésie

~

The fingers of the night
strum her dark hair,
with each plucked string
the jasmine scent wafts
and goes everywhere, everywhere.

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.

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.

Silent Dithyramb

In the still night
my heart surrounding her
is stiller still,
a dithyramb composed
of an infinite yearning,
a longing deeper
than the womb of the sun.

My heart surrounds her
with the tranquil charm
of the silent sea at dawn,
as my touch in wave after wave
falls upon her skin,
languidly burning,
my breath wrapping her
like a dreaming cloud.

Now she sleeps,
and as her eyes close
her other eyes open,
wide awake
inside the infinite landscape
of poetry’s own heart.

Letter, April 30, 2017

I feel the press of your breasts and soft skin around me, everywhere, coaxing me to flower into you the erection of my body, the life of my poetry. Your light comes in flashes of intuition, falling upon my face as through the sunlit openings of an orchard, and I heed with the attentiveness of my whole body, the animal soul in me. Your dew falls like an erotic enchantment and a buoyancy comes like a fountain rising from the depth of my soul; suddenly I find myself harnessed in shafts of wheat upon the altar of your body, ready to burn, ready to become dough and bread, ready to feed upon the milk of your breasts and the honey of your skin. Your body is the world, the element I am living in, moving through, and this eros, this tension between us mercilessly opens me and challenges me to become in the thrust the man that I am. So I take you, as I give myself to you, as through you I slingshot myself into the sky of eternity.

Woman of silk and fire, woman of milk and honey suckling my wildest desire.