7 poems

1         Living Love

Time to wake from sleep my dear

and rest thy slumber from your eyes

where morning rise to kindness writes

the sweetness of what they bring to life.

A comfort voice to understand

the breath of joy within my sleep

a calming lyric verse of light

that brings thy living love to me

where here I wait for you to come

to wake my lie from slumber’s death.

 

2         No Title

Crocus buds

being nursed

by a soft warm shower

sweetly smiles

at a peeking sun.

 

Pure in color

dawn of growth

they rise to meet

what we rise to greet

a new reciting of the spring.

 

3         Silent Flow

A timeless water creeps in flow

from creation’s touch in a rippling brook

a way of nature soft to joy

a pleasured way through an unseen veil.

 

No egotistical power to embrace what its not

unlike the irreverence of man no glory to light

subduing, destroying, what they created not

tearing the giving into a crumbling earth.

 

Always to last the sunrise and set

a life of freedom in eternity’s refrain

wondering where all the brooks have gone

as a rainbow trout lies with the silent flow.

 

4         No Title

Life lies softly full with love

filling the dream where they lie.

Still both asleep with last night’s birth

as sips of morning touch their eyes.

 

5         “I AM”

Was it his vision

the slaying of Abel?

Leaving in turmoil

the meaning of life.

 

Humanity defiled

into a bleakness of soul

dying into embers

to never relight.

 

A sanguinary of spirit

deformed into shadows

to never reform

into the faith of man’s birth.

 

A matter of darkness

now bred in the marrow

this scattering of Caine

into the foundation of man.

 

6          No Title

It’s sweet.

The way you arrange the polar bears-

snuggling their hearts next to each,

as if they were alive.

As if you saw your lost lover in their eyes-

snuggling in an autumn sunset-before she came.

 

7         Lamentation

Mother of Sappho,

as desolate as she,

I.

Acid through my heart,

mortal annihilation,

overtures to pestilence,

versed in the heart of a broken man

nourished by the vestige of her.

 

So far away I am,

so far, far from me.

A distant now by memories kept,

when before the widowed asp.

 

Thus, never again I’ll dream of love

for it leaves a stain to burn the vision

decaying through the stem of its rose

leaving its entrails in the bowel of love.

 

O,  mother of Sappho, what is left?

 

Lamentation, my dear,

lamentation-to the cruelty of love.

 

Too the wounded time of longing,

where the winter clings to a silent cold,

and the solitude of missing never leaves

imprisoned as her heart to the ferryman Phaon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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