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Alex Burns Jun 2012
Starlight is fading, clouds cover the  moon,
the wind gently stirs the leaves of the stiff holly bush.
All else is silence, a woman whispers a rosary and I sigh,
in contemplation of the ineffable that I haven't the words to portray.
There is laughter in that silence, barely heard below the whisper,
laughter, and a gentle sob.
This is the first night in a long time that I have stepped outside for a smoke,
five years my meerscham sat dormant collecting dust.
It is an awful lot, the life of an artist,
always trying to make things better...
or worse.
For what it is worth I would not choose to be anything more
than a simple poet, who smokes a pipe at night (only)
and has nothing but time to examine the dimming,
the lowering of the shimmering
the fading of the stars that I once new all the names of.
Heartless men manouver, and orchestrate machinations,
not me.
I am a poet, and a poet sips the last drop of the fading starlight
from a tiny thimble, because a poet is entitled to such things,
it is his salary for doing the things that no one else can.
For seeing the truth beyond the ineffable.
Not only seeing, but recording.
Only poets do these things right.
Everything else that might be done, is better off left to someone
other than a poet.
Someone, who simply is more focused on moving forward.
We poets linger, like an odor...
not foul, at least not always.
But none the less, it does us no good.
I am no longer a poet, I cant pierce the veil, and see the wisdom
in a beam of moonlight.
I can only sit here.
Smoke my pipe,
and wait.
The fading starlight tells me that I can't wait long.
The song of my soul, will sing, it must sing, or else
it is better that we cease to be...
Perhaps I am through. Either way I will smoke this pipe for all its worth,
and when the last tendril of smoke drifts away, I will head to my bed
where I will sleep soundly for the first time in over a month.

A Burns 2012
Alex Burns Jun 2012
Eleven tragic magic kisses by the sea...
This is goodbye.
My daughter needs my laptop for university. I'm back to pad and pen.
Alex Burns Jun 2012
I stand here by the cliffs I have called home
since before my heart kept time,
and look into the sea, raging beneath my feet.
Each crashing spume spatters my face
with a cascade of tiny droplets,
like a shower of sea sprite kisses upon my cheeks and eyelids.
Through the mist I can just see the sun rising
like a golden disk of inexhaustible fire,
painting the cliff side in its incomparable magnificence.
All the horrors of this life wash away, like our original sin
under the baptismal font of the sea's spray.
Looking at that sun, my spirit soars, and I finally understand
the glory of being free.
Flocks of migratory birds dive and climb above the  roaring waves,
soon the puffin shall roost here, for now it is the smaller varieties
that serenade me in my morning revelry.
Everything is gorgeous out here in the mist, every creature and stone
glows with its own undeniable inner light, the cliffs turn into bonfires of beauteous splendor
the surface of the sea paints the flitting reflections on its roiling surface
turning tiny birds into the mirror images of angels
descending from heaven, to greet this misty morning with me.
I ponder jumping off this cliff, as life shall surely never grant such wonder again,
until I hear a voice from over my shoulder, call out, bearing with it the scents
of blood sausage frying, and porridge blended with wildflower honey and blueberries.
My favourite meal, by far. So I take in one more glance, at the slowly rising sun,
turn away from the precipice, listen to the birds call out to me, "Farewell, until tomorrow"
they seem to say. It is moments like this that invigorate the soul, and fill a man
with the desire to live, and persevere, to enjoy one more breakfast with someone
who loves them back with a fervor, that would give the raging sea pause to witness it.
I will whistle if I want to whistle, I do whistle, as I make my way down the treacherous path,
that leads to the warm and welcome bliss, that is a single meal,
on a beautiful late spring morning, with someone who looks forward to seeing you
everyday. Someone who understands love, and commitment far better than I.
Someone like you. Who would kiss me ten times as lovingly, as the droplets of mist.
Just as the sea painted my face like a living canvas,
with the rainbow coloured joyous tears of angels rejoicing.
Someone like me, who deserves far less than life feels is my just share.
I pour the strong scented amber brew, from the *** into my cup, and breath deeply.
The heady aroma of Irish breakfast blend, is like a dose of smelling salts,
waking me from the nights slumbers, reminding me that I am not dreaming,
this misty morning is a true gift, and only a fool would deny the existence of beauty
on a morning such as this.
This is why we toil and strive, mend walls, and patch the roof.
So if we are blessed, we can spend just one such morning, once in this life,
eating food prepared with affection, a strong cup of Twining's,
and the re-energizing aura, of simply being loved.
If there is more than this to life, may I die never knowing it.
For how could heaven ever compare to this morning?

A Burns 2012
Alex Burns Jun 2012
When I was a much younger man, I hiked the moorland,
my mother was Welsh, and the dry rolling hills spoke to my soul.
I'd trudge on through the forgotten paths, and daydream of my darling.
The wind it whipped like ethereal hands, tugging at my clothes
like a crazed lover.
But I was alone, out there on the moorlands.
Not a human in sight, such things make us feel most human.
I'd slip the flask from my hip pocket, and down a dram of scotch from the little metal cup,
and make love to the solitude. So much emptiness, so much loveliness.
The nights were especially cold, and harsh, I would spread my blanket
across the crunchy permafrost, and curl up into a ball.
Half awake, my feet tucked into my pack, I would hear music.
No instruments, just a vocal melody.
The words were unclear, but the feeling, it could only be love.
Years have passed, it seems like ages, since I walked the fields of my youth.
Now I have a family, and I find that I can still hear the music.
It is stronger, and it is clearer. In the rays of the morning sun,
with my family sleeping peacefully, I finally understand the song.
"Live, and Love my lovelies, ignore the cold. Sleep and dream,
in the morning you will wake up, the sun will be shining, and you will be loved."
This morning, dawn breaks so sweetly, and I quickly forget the insults of days past,
the hassles at the airport, and the trials of the day.
For the first time in however many years, as my loved ones gently snore
in their beds, spread out across two continents, I open my eyes, and I can still hear the music.
This melody is mine, no, it is ours, and you can hear it if you listen,
for it is the melody of love, and we all share it, whether we serve love or not,
We are loved.

A Burns 2012
I'll be adjusting my style gradually, my daughter teased me the other day, and pointed out that I had been writing in one way only, to grow I will need to branch out a bit. Growth is essential for all art.
Alex Burns Jun 2012
They have tried to conceal our love,
they've thrown up roadblocks, and smokescreens
to keep us from finding each other again,
but yet we always do. Our love has its own radar.
I can sense your heart beating, like an angelic drum
through the haze, and I know you can always hear the love
in my voice, even through the harsh foul static.

Even when you cannot respond, I know you know
my love is always glowing, like a lighthouse in the night.
Guiding you back to my harbor of eternal affection,
where my lips never tire of sounding the horn of our happiness.
I have stumbled for women before, like a blind man descending stairs.
But I never fell, until I tumbled head first into the bottomless pool
of your beauty. The only waters in which I would gladly drown,
have drowned, only to be rescued and resuscitated by your kisses.
Those who do not speak the language of our love, point their antennas our way,
they intercept our transmissions, but their code books are missing the pages
that explain how such emotion can be decoded. They only catch the grand communique,
always missing the short, but ever so loving messages, that come in daily
over the teletype of passion. Feverishly at this very moment, they wrack their brains
wondering at the deeper context of our words, but their is no hidden meaning,
behind the expression of affection. Love is its own context, and if they cannot translate it
then they are the ones at fault, not us. We have our own frequencies, and wavelengths.

Our Love shall always ring out in the darkness, even if we have to switch channels,
It will be there, to comfort us, and relieve the ache of our longing. I already have enough
in this world. Let them have the rest. All I need is our tiny daily broadcast, all I need is...
Our love.
I am back my love, It wont be long, until I kiss you once again. It's a long drive from Edinburgh to our home, but every moment is electric, because I know I am returning to you.
Alex Burns Jun 2012
I swim in the soothing whispers you emit as you sleep,
although a sea separates our bodies I can feel
the rhythmic susurrus of your gentle breath,
as you lie and dream of my touch.

I long to run my fingers across your skin
and place a gossamer kiss on your brow,
more than living itself. I know you're there
and I know that you're dreaming of my voice.

Until our entities are intertwined again,
wrap yourself in a blanket of my words
and wait for me, all I need is the sound
of your subtle sighs, to guide me home.

As you inhale and exhale, like the waves
kiss the shore, I feel a mystical energy
coursing through my veins,
and I smile, and I know you're smiling too.

Keep breathing, don't worry, It won't be long
until I once again am by your side,
to share the air with you,
and merge in breathless ecstasy once more.

A Burns 2012
Alex Burns Jun 2012
There is only one voice that I know, even when my own escapes me.
  This voice rings through
whether shouts or sighs,
every syllable is beautiful, a symphony in concert.

There is only one voice, that can awaken this field of undying roses.
one voice that feeds me
   like the new dawn's
nourishing rays, feed all the world with radiance.

One voice that makes my pulse race, the only voice that thrills me
    one voice that rings true
   whether longing or scorn,
it soothes me through my slumbers, and awakens me at dawn.

This voice has only one name:
the voice I trust even when its lying.
the only voice I trust
because it trusts me
to carry it's flame.
I trust only

Deceptions await all around us
but I sense love preternaturally,
I don't need my other senses.
Trust only in love
It will always sustain us

Only Love.

A Burns 2012
I love, therefore I am.
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