your face speaks more
than a million heartfelt adages;

travailing, you
compel stone-cold statesmen to grieve.

was it debu-
-ssy who softened my heart to say that?

a cypress dies
when it touches your tear-snuffing sleeve.

it there was not a shallow
mighty as the waters hang
payloads fell and footpaths gave
to mercy they will never ask
whom murmurs softly send sincere
this sinking fife and drum
of burden's restless hum
calling wishing for a storm

remember summer and
gin and vague brotherhood
rising from coma with effervescence
(now look what you've done)
killer of the noble herdsmen
making nightmares should
not be this effortless

calm brings dear ones in
light embraces you
remember summer and
see it forever
rest your lids on that image
before darkness supplants tears

I know a land of salt
and pepper stalks and moss,
whose jagged, hazy coast
a thousand flowers bears —
of Ireland I boast.

Even now my heart is sick
for a home I never had.
If I were there,
what I would do,
I'll tell to you....

I'd show my love the mountain's nooks,
I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks,
and plunder every dusty book,
and sleep in emerald vales.
We'd clamber up to a secret cave
and there we'd dwell,
away from the pell-mell,
and fast away in purple robes,
pretending we were noble-born
(for Ireland, we ought to be),
we'd in defiance hunger stave.

See now, her cloud legions marching in step
like flares emerging from the wood.
While horses roam her sunlit plains
and flowers shudder in her breeze;
while puddles form in shallow pools,
my watered mind accustoms trees
of bleak and twisted nature,
on the wild icicle river,
coldly biting my knees.

But here afar away,
there's treasure under every
glistening leaf,
'twixt frond and fern,
bristle and bramble,
and bounding stream.
By daylight,
Eire counts every rock;
at starlight,
assesses her stock.

I know a land
whose greenery bursts
in the morning dew,
and gives hopeful cause
to a hundred generations
of stoic sword-brethren
flashing down the coast,
singing their jolly tune,
as the oak decks are mounted
with freedom's guns
emboldening battle new.

Her amber-gilded name spears through
clouded sea and Cambrian cliff:
if every isle were touched as this!
by saintly light from Atlas' air.
She is the jewel of the isles,
the song of countless souls.
As men march down her
summer roads to meet their
tender-hearted lovers at home in
comfort from callous kings, the
breeze will bring news of another
christening or crossing... for then
each girl will spy him coming, and
make haste to alert the town,
and they will all turn out with joy
to welcome home their darling boy;
to herald the ending of famine and war,
and so they will shout for centuries more!

Let me collapse restfully into your arms,
ourselves a bundle of tindersticks,
waking wooden wagons warm.

Neither sorry nor shattered,
only curled in fever
and sunset bliss...

I want this,
in the depths of my core;
I know light,
despite what I try to ignore.

Like gravity you weaken me,
and make me sink each day,
until there is nothing left
but my heart, exposed above the mess,
the rags of filth, the bands of flesh
that made my head so sway.

Till sunlight goes,
we'll think on those
forgotten notes
we longed to play.

Dreaming in risers
of distant delights,
never to surface because they are worn,
themselves neither sorry nor shattered;
merely a feverish hope, singing
pleadingly from the deep:
Let me collapse restfully into your arms.

in my dream,
fringed with sequoias,
she, love of my death, holds me.

The potter's wheel is always spinning,
And the dusty mouth of the gods has not been swept.
Who knows what the king of the earth wants?
I eat white radishes from a bowl of oil.

An eternal shadow lies in the high cave,
Sliding the sound of birds from the lofty mountains.
The icy arms of the peak follow them:
Hand in hand down the quiet ***** they go.

On that bleak frontier, thousands suffered
For the Emperor's cruel project;
Men with hollow stomachs making endless mounds
To fashion his recreation hall.
The monster was alike to its creation:
Heartless in the handling of generals.
When Li Guang, an expert strategist,
Fell into the hands of barbarians,
He played possum and seized a horse,
Riding for nine miles to rejoin his men,
Spitting arrows at his pursuers.
After bringing his troop safely home,
He was recommended for execution.
...Woe befalls he who settles there,
Where exhausted horses go to pace,
Where the crows are the only ones eating.
Should the rice harvest fail, a soldier will go
To the red northern gate and die unmourned.
The fruits of the south are sweet in all seasons,
But the fruit of the Long Wall is ruin and death.

More belongs to he who holds the stone,
Of fortune's birth, the pharaoh of our time.
When words proceed, he directs them;
When foes recede, he compels them.
Hear the labor-stricken bones of men
Wail out from death and sooted soil:
Hail the River King, our stoneworks praise him!
Hail the River King, the rushes raise him!

the sapping dusk denies my dreams frenetic,
it ebbs in icy cattail streams uncouth;
in rural woodland glades, I’d wax poetic,
but shoddy snowbank streets are all my youth.

they ride along
the mountain road:
kashgar and
the heron girl
crane their necks
to the shaman's haze,
ploughing out
the humpback’s trail.

with a slow hup-hup, up
down powder trot,
a boombox laugh
and a slapstrum knot;
walking the lake,
talking of the bay,
savor the night:
hear what they say!

bronze battalions
beat the prince,
hide the sambas
inside of their hats;
a summer tent,
a sterling pearl:
kashgar and
the heron girl.

they rode along
the mountain road,
past water cranes
and lily haze;
roaming slow
the worldshell snail,
ploughing out
the humpback trail.

wrested from the reeds was a man aged twenty,
a poor and dying man with skin as black as coal;
the height of a birch stump, the worth of a penny:
a hefty blanket allergen with tatters for a soul.

cup your hands and receive the worlds blossoms:
wealth, warmth, and wisdom
i pray you will hold them

I want to write frankly and without pretense,
I'm young and sort of inexperienced,
But I'll tell you since you've asked:
I have thirty-nine hidden poems about rivers.
Crying poetry distracts me from tinnitus,
Frissonic song evokes inner wants in me;
Ants in my shoe, bites on my knee,
Bends in my spine, quavers in my soul
Remind me of how imperfect I am.
        I've seen a glimpse of stoic vision
        And I'm appalled, to tell the truth.
        I want to give you words of wisdom,
        But all I can muster is my own dumb youth.

There was none universally adored by men;
Though some are loved by all the world,
Even so there are things abhorred of them.

Pick you a jolly good chappie, but dig
To his depths, and you shall find a rotten den,
And all the ugly things abhorred of him.

Good souls live, but never exceed their ken,
Nor let another grasp their heart again,
Though they be loved by all the world.

Still today they abhor Him;
Though He is love and all the world,
He could not be adored by every man.

When ancients in our eyes waged war in green Gaul,
He fought for new wealth and nobleman's glory,
He rose from mud where slave-spears lay shattered,
And raised the good name of his house from disgrace.
Binding giants in a favorable pact,
The consulship could well be attained,
But men of the day could not perceive greatness,
And barred him from beloved Rome.
So he rode out and vanquished the untamed Gauls,
Who once had brought Rome to its fearful knees,
Winning victory after victory in forests of the north,
Splitting oaks in the east, where his sword marred its sheen.
When fleets by Britain's cliffs hemmed the horizon,
When the seat of the Sphinx was polished marble-gold,
There were ten thousand Greeks could tell of his exploits,
And ten hundred Egyptians who claimed to know him.
With rude steel, he mastered the Mediterranean,
And over the Earth he brandished civilization.
In later years, his heirs spread like a stain upon the land;
The seas too were dyed with Roman sails,
And every coin minted bore the face of Caesar.
Even now, though the empire is hardened like iron,
And purple luxury replaces the crimson of war,
There are still a few among us who remember
Our young and mighty red-feathered conqueror.

I dreamt that they would take you.
You may think me a fool,
But of this I am not wrong.
My dream was real in every way:
The dull, the dim, the black and grey,
In certainty, I saw you fall,
And I will suffer most of all,
If you will not my warning heed,
If you’ll succumb to lust and greed,
And let them take you and make you bleed,
As I dreamt that they would do.

When you are gone, what will I do?
Shall I go home, alone and blue?
What will your father think of you,
Who let herself be taken?

Your sister will cease to play the harp,
Your brother will sit alone in the dark,
Poor mother will own a broken heart,
Her weeping spirit shaken.

Oh, you might think me a fool,
But this time I'm not wrong.
If you’ll ignite that inner spark,
And tell the flame to pierce the dark,
Then you may know the morning lark,
And nothing on Earth can break you.

Still, you ignore my pleas,
As I sink unto my knees,
And nothing I say—
No warning imploring—
Can stifle your hum and wake you.
Alas! I’ll cry, I’ll sigh, I’ll die!
For I dreamt that they will take you.

The deep somber toll of a brass bell,
a black wagon carrying me to the grave:
these are the sighs of a missed Friday.

Then disappear,
fly far away,
bound over cloud,
hide in blue solace.

But never forever,
dear dove, I pray,
for light and love
are with you always.

poppies and ponies
time twirling woven blanket
plum-blossom undershade

As everything bright must transition to night,
so too comes the evening of all my graces:
the sands, the salts, the waxing wine;
the hunt-and-pecks in diverse places.

Pour me another cup of almonds, then,
only this time make them into milk....
...why bear the texture of harsh fabric,
when your lips could be gliding over silk?

yellowtree yelling
at stalwart stacks'
thick black clouds.

yellowtree dying
under smogspace
frowns, drowns.

red airplane:
whir whir whir.

red airplane:
whir whir whir whir whir

over cliff
under sky
in the currents:
fly fly fly
ᶠˡʸ ᶠˡʸ ᶠˡʸ ᶠˡʸ

The moon above Maracaibo
Deigns to lower its great arm,
Sending broad white streaks
Across the mighty dark.

Around the lakeside chanting
Songs of the evening hum,
Couples dwell beneath her,
Drinking their watery ***.

The moon above Maracaibo
Likes to glint in your glass,
Tasting a bit of that mixture,
Dabbling in perfect romance.

But when the day arrives
To turn the blue grass green,
It waits for pitch-black night
To make Maracaibo sheen.

Calais was a small disappointment,
And Ams-too-**** good to be true,
So while the red orb is yet to set,
I'll clear out my debt,
And try to forget,
And gather fresh hope on the morrow new.

Vesoul, that was my destination:
I gave up Quebec and Madrid!
Gladly forsaking old
Constantinople, for
Paris awaited my trip.

But I can't make a living in Bangkok,
With poncy jazzmen such as these.
The coffers of kings are busted and broke,
And my heart craves more
Than ashes and smoke,
So tour Guatemal', if you please.

Goodbye to pretty Latakia,
I turn from your shore with such sorrow.
Your flowery air I long to breathe,
Instead of standing alone in the street;
I want to return in a golden-fringed dream...
And gather fresh hope on the morrow.

The flat island floods
for want of a ****;
the land turns to mud,
the landsman alike;
  cursing the robin,
  the jay and the shrike.

i would like
to take
a shuttle to the moon:
a dear rocket through the blue!

as i cling to the wing
of the rickety thing,
i would sing a little
faring daring tune

if the moon were bright,
brighter than night,
and made of the stuff
that we covet and lust,

i would like
to take home
a piece of it for you.

Now the sirens weep about the inlet,
Red-eyed, she goes walking beachward somedays;
While the men are picking grasses, she is staring
At the wide expanse that took her boy away.
And the waves become emboldened now to touch her,
Softly sinking sands surround her knees;
In the forests of brazilwood, factors shudder
For the troops that they had marshalled,
Raked with fire in armfuls,
Cut down in the darkness of the trees.

Goodbye, Mr. Tears, sayonara
Sayonara namida-kun
Till the day we meet again

You were once my only friend
In this world of despair
How ever could I live
without you

But I've fallen in love
It's a wonderful love
And it's likely I can live
without meeting you for a while

Goodbye, lonely tears, sayonara
Sayonara namida-kun
Till the day we meet again

You were once my only friend
In this world of despair
How ever could I live
without you

But the girl that I love
Has the kindest of hearts
That's why I think I can make do

Goodbye, lonely tears, sayonara
Sayonara namida-kun
But if all my dreams fall through
After all, I still have you

Tomorrow the sun will rise
as usual, the moon will also sleep
in a harmonic star-cradle;
the voice of longing will emanate
Tomorrow, from our lips;
bright morning and two-days,
waking safely somehow in our
terrace of the dawn. I hope
the chance will come for you
to view the river city
in all its sunrise glory
Tomorrow,
before the latesummer ends.

You were Temüjin.
You were Tamerlane.
You would not live to see
your works made into fruit—
—at least you lived to see
Castilians and Franks
accost the flanks
of the Ayyubid ranks,
while across the banks
you gave a salute.

Dancing down the argent lane,
Splashing graceless cares away;
Whirling round in youthful bliss,
Halting night to board my dreamship.
As the song beats "murasaki",
The sidewalk gleams, and I am happy.

I love a pretty girl,
For her I pine, I long.
I see her smile of pearl,
Then dimly she is gone.
I watch her reappear,
As fair and pure as ever,
And Cupid tugs my ear,
And gently whispers "never".

If I were bold and young,
As a sailor's son,
For sure I'd sail away;
To the land where my fathers lived,
And I wouldn't give
A thought for me today.

For there in my quiet ville,
At the foot of a broad hill,
Reaching up so high;
I'd go tripping with my love,
Like the fond May dove,
Round the fog of the morning sky.

A fair-haired lass
My love would be,
Come from afar
To dance with me;
And like the dust,
We'd shelter in the caves;
And like the dust,
We'd blow away.

scorched railroad
hammers clang, boss shouts
blue men moan

eleventh letter
tin pan alley raindance blues
sorrowful sister

What would a soldier sacrifice
To lay himself on cobbled dirt,
That honestmen might vow by oath
To hold together the union?

His purse, his purpose, e'en his life,
Our knight would place on hallowed earth;
The silker, though, would rather beg
To hold together the union.

In victory's arms I sleep at night,
Beneath the fierce pharoanic sun
That built and broke the Umayyads
To hold together the union.

I traveled all the ancient lands,
I found no joy where'er I trod;
Ferns are green where rivers spring,
But lauded hills bear blackened soil,
And joy resides where dwelleth God.

The dawn of man is close at hand,
The fall of man is past its due;
The sword lies shattered in the sand
To hold together the union.

Cross-battles waged on crisping ice,
I won't for martial fame partake,
In fear that I would be obliged
To hold together the union.

Of mortal faith I haven't cared
But, lying now on cobbled dirt,
By faith, I solemnly declare
To hold together the union.

freshly-soaked soil
Burmese cloudscape
humid trunks wrestling
for domain of the sky

Oureana, young and beautiful
Rests in her den of lavish comfort,
Looks from her Moorish palace balcony,
Sipping honey from a wooden bowl.
Draped in red damask and easter green,
She watches the soldier ride below.
"Princess, do not look at him!"
Softly comes the desperate hum
Of a servant overlooked and ignored.
"Even now I wish you peace,
To hear the crack of battle nevermore."

water trembles on black lily night,
rainshowers' sudden splash wakes me.
looking from a faint orange glass,
a single star shines atop the city.
my heart sails across the stream
to the street where you live.
rain has stopped, air is clear,
I am walking on a sunlit day.
alone, I meet you; curious
we are to see each other,
like two well-met bluejays.

how is life?
well, it's good
so is mine

water trembles on black lily night,
my hands slip down the pane.
I wring the hang-down curtain,
and welcome in the summer rain.

Sun-wine on a fair Venetian morn,
where pleasant friends arrive
like fluffy clouds, the sky to adorn.

I tip the bare bronze cup of constancy—
in mirrored movements alive—
and I render new health to the company.

daws cry on my roof,
viewing musty lights
builded high on rocks.

seven towers sing
your old song, now gone:
it is not my fault.

Who can tame the winds of the sea?
None but ******, Wind-Keeper, he,
Who keeps both the savior and scourge of the sail
Fastened away in a mountainous jail,
And from that bronze fortress escapes not a wail.

Who can tame the winds of the soul?
A man with more mirth than mad Aeol.

Spring has come, and with it rain,
But yester-season's gifts remain.
Still healing sun outlasts it all,
Till fast again comes fatal fall.

...My heart is like the buds of May,
Which yearn for comfort, tucked away:
No wanting soul can know their worth,
Until, from snow, their flowers burst
With vibrant hues and youth unsealed --
That hated winter once concealed,
That hardened bark had sought to hide
-- Now springtime's stem has swift revealed:
Sweet love's abundance multiplied.

The calm September wind
Hugs seashell clacking beach,
Leaps over shaking pines,
The inland world to breach.
From blue horizons south,
Surmounts the hilly west,
So mountain-walker, water-deaf
Can hear the ocean in its breath.

Wide awake in shadows of the night,
I spy a moonlit spectre on the right.
The left, a brazen horse of fiery rage,
Styled in ebon ink upon the page;
Trampling prudence down where it may trod,
Spiriting the righteous unto God.
Mane as black as hills beneath the mount,
Where ashen sands and lava wash about,
To gently take the will of those who've come
Afar to find withdrawal from the sun.
Bristling, glistening, shrieking 'neath the moon,
Whistling as it sprints to usher doom.
Afeared my soul appear a facile theft,
I meekly pull my conscience from the left.

crickets chirp
tree mist in valley
fall glow farm

A graceful girl combs my heart,
And skillfully plucks my harp.
It's more difficult to breathe
Than to let myself love her.

within the forest sings a bird
a rambling song of life and lack;
amid the fuss he can't be heard,
but heaven's whisper calls him back.

cracked fog moss
garden blacktails sing
snowmelt pool