piano
Sunrise
listened
as I summoned your face to mine.
Your arms around me
in the
silence of this empty rest;
incomplete,
I lie alone. My
footsteps trace the hall
lured to the solace of the keys where
they wait
in quiet yet whose strings
are nagging like a woman scorned.
I would write
a song for you, my love.
I would write a song of promise
from the hollow
of my core;
complete,
but still alone. I watch my
hands across the keys
from white to black
and crevices between,
the soundlessness
is broken
pulling tears out from the air.
An ancient ballad intervenes,
an
offering lays opened.
His silence stands alone.
Louder I play, the tempo
never rushed.
I created this for him, can he not hear it?
Slender trills,
sudden rises,
passion lost against the flicking pages
of his flurried catalogue
and
coffee in the den.
My soul sees only you;
so many miles
and time
away.
I move my hands for your eyes.
You, who finds beauty in every
breath
I take. You caress me with
your words. With no reserve,
my soul lies bare.
Your face,
your voice, I bring you near.
You are the sound that fills
my air. 25 jan 98
sound available
Frédéric
Francçois Chopin(1810-49);
Poland.
Nocturne Op.9
tranquil
eyes
fear lifts
liquified
vaporized
from
pools
of autumn hues
and prussian blue
deep waters of your eyes through
clouds of trust
it swims
it dives
to sky
swimming to the air two
souls envisaged
in one breath
and echoed by voices
of gossamer seas
vagabond
shadows
unbroken in time
lips touching lips
drenched
in nebulous deities.
25
jan 98
|
anamnesis
barbed
scathing stings
dissolution reaped
serrating souls
now a sum of lost
and dispassionate indifference the harness withers with
disease
lodged between the head and heart
throat tight disquieted bearing
down through empty arms
at once stunned with covenants of remembrance the
breath inside my fumbling frame
of soul and flesh draws air
enraptured by
the scent
and burning of your skin where it lingers to
consume its own rebirth.
27 aug 97
| the
sea hath bounds but
deep desire hath none
[Venus
and Adonis] |
esoteric
feed me kisses
arched above the earth
become my breath
and help me hold it
under the water of
this mirage
claim me
cover me
with warm kisses
of you. 25
jan 98
submerged your
words seep through the mortared stone words drenched skimming
cables
as they siphon as they pour
rosewater fragments
habit of soul
spent and redeemed with an ivory comb on
fire i dive into your cove across
the air and stars and pictures painted on
the ground
a black night-heron nods the windless sky
responds i know your kiss i've felt it press
my nape
you traced its vacantness
i know the content of the shell it waits in words
for
glances of a touch a soul's caress and washes clean the
marrow of its emptiness.
23 mar 98
Quote
From
"Dead Poets Society"
By John Keating
Robin
Williams
Screenplay by Tom Schulman
1989 We don't
read and write poetry because
it's cute. We read and write poetry
because
we are members of the human race.
And the human race is filled with passion.
And
medicine, law, business, engineering,
these are noble pursuits and necessary
to
sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance,
love, these are what we stay
alive for.
To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!...
of the questions
of these recurring; of
the endless trains of the faithless--
of cities
filled with the foolish; what
good amid these, O me, O life? Answer.
That
you are here - that life exists,
and identity; that the powerful play goes
on
and you may contribute a verse."
That the powerful play goes on and you
may contribute a verse.
What will your verse be?
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