Oh! Here in my
heart, in my
heart of hearts,
is the name of my love,
my love.

Oh! Here in the
cleft, in the
deepest of deep
places, sheltered
from the wind,
and the sun,
and the sea,
is the name of my love,
my love.

There, my love
in my heart of hearts,
in the dark
of my fear,
and my sorrow,
and regret,
within me forever;
comfort and
solace.

In the fires of
my heart, in the
rivers of my blood,
as life, as the life
of the land, is my love,
my love.

And on my lips,
on the wings of
my breath, is her
name, my love.

In the times
of my gladness,
in the gladness
of my soul,
when my skin
trembles with
the spirit and
sensation, then
am I the gladder,
far more than
any man,
than any at all
in the telling of
this earth,
for I know what
it is to hold
love in my heart.

Yes I know
what it is
to hold love
in my heart.

And I hold you
in my heart,
in my heart,
in my heart.

Oh I tell you
love, you who
dwell within me,
in my breath
as the lands breath,
in my bones
as the lands bones.

If that time too
should come,
if that most blessed
time should
come in its time,
in its time that is
its own time,
and our lips meet,
seed and seeds
desire, there
after long yearning;
after the longest
of long yearnings.

Oh, I know not
what I'd do,
oh my love,
oh my love.

Oh, to know
what I'd do,
oh my love,
oh my love.

But I think that
I'd burst, oh
my love,
my love.

As the dam in
the springtime,
my love,
my love.

But to feel your
touch, your touch
that burns, and
to drink your eyes,
as the pine and
hearthlight,
to know of your
scent, that of
all others is
your own,
and to breathe your
breath, as one,
as one.

To breathe of your
breath, as one,
as one.

Oh for this
do I yearn,
oh my love,
oh my love.

And for this
I'd yet yearn,
oh my love,
my love.

though I withered
in the blaze, oh
my love,
my love.

For in my heart,
in my deepest
heart, yea, in the
deepest of deep
places, there you
are, my love,
and your name is on
the point of my
lips, to fly,
to fly.

To fly as the eagle
flies, swiftly and
with great soaring.

It is you and none
other that I love,
I love.

And in these words
do I tell it, my love,
my love.

Though they fall
unanswered, my love,
my love.

Here is my cry.

Here is my cry.

Love,
God;
fruit on
the vine
of innocence,
withered, in
the wake
of Spring.
My Life-
incessant
struggle
in the
great
task,
to bring
Spring
back
again.

I am standing,
at once in place,
at once afar,
thinking, love,
my swift flown
dove, I am
thinking thoughts
of you, down by the
rivers edge, where the
waters ran so blue, and the
Stars twinkled down like
angels in the heavens,
when we kissed, that first
time, so near a time, and yet
so far away. I am thinking, love,
my dearest flower, while the wind
comes blowing coldly,
and the mist comes slowly rising,
I am thinking thoughts of you.

I hear the waves rushing, hear them sighing in and
out, with the currents and the tides and the ever present
moon. A salty breeze brushes past, soft and fleeting, as that
last and gentle kiss, before you broke and said goodbye, and
left me standing there, beneath the glowing moon. The great
fronds of the giant palms rub together in the wind, and whisper
of untold secrets, hidden since the beginning, and of the pain of
a lover lost. The seagulls scream, mournfully their cries, echo down
to me, and remind me of the time, when my heart was still fresh
broken, and I wept 'neath starry skies. I am silent now. I am listening.
Waiting for her merry laughter, for her softly padding feet, carrying
her to me, back to me, across the sands of time and grief. I am waiting.
Come back to me my ever-love, come back to me.
Please?

The wind. Ever blowing, unchanging, and yet change
is its nature. Soothing and driving, gentle and furious.
I have written of this before. The wind. I have spoken
of the slow wearing of erosion, down upon the stones,
I have written of the rain it drives to freezing frenzy,
of its gentle breezes, of its gales, of its storms. And I have
felt the wind. I have heard it howl through the trees like an
avenging spirit, I have seen it tear the leaves from the swaying limbs
and raise them high to heaven, and hurl them down to
Earth again, terrible in its fury. I have felt it, when I stood
beside the lake, in the first beginnings of the new Spring, how
it blew softly through my hair, gentle as a mothers hand. I saw
as it stirred the waters of the lake, and set them to lapping gently
at the shore, and at the pillars of the dock, there beside me. And I
remember thinking in that moment, that life was good, and I remember
that I was happy. I have written of the wind. I have seen it, I have felt it,
I have heard it, whispering through the leaves, and knocking the bare limbs
softly together, in that time of winter. I have known the wind. And yet I wonder,
whether something such as this, may ever be truly known, the sighing breeze,
the howling gale. Perhaps.

Once, as I searched the leaning
shelves, browsing, as in casual
manner oft I used to do, but of
late let fall, left caught in the
dreamish dust of the wayside,
In the net of things forgotten,
after the like of the windward
spirit, I came across a faded
cover, full venerable, (worn
with youths withdrawal), but set
far back amidst its fellows,
hidden in the quenching shadows,
Of those great tomes of learned
Word, graph and ledger, prosaic
Illustration.

Intrigued so, I let the winsome
Curiosity have its way, and pried
apart the green and dusted sheath,
and looked inside, so as to make
certain whether or no, I should
know, or leave unknown. Leafing
through those tattered pages,
thin and yellowed, words faint,
beneath the grime of years and
care, it came to my mind in wonder
how many, as myself, must have
come, in ignorance perhaps, or
error to these pages once
pristine, and in reading become
caught, swept away in frenzied
passion, tearing, tearing, tearing
away, mad in the arms of
Felt and feeling feel and
knowledge, in the hope it will
Turn, transmuted in glorious
Ecstasy, into at last the long
Sought respite, peace at last,
Within the still transparent
Pool of Truth, Enlightenment.

In vain? Perhaps.

Sun shining,
kissing the falling rain,
ripples in a rainbow pond.

Willows,
their hearts are sore,
hair trailing in the clear water.

Sunset,
My heart and I,
alone with our thoughts
and the sighs of the willows.

Heartbreak,
an old sorrow, dulled
by the years and by beauty
and by pain.

Now,
Sharp as shards of
shattered glass, the pain returns
as rollers breaking, over
my life and the span
of years.

And all is grey,
as sand in an ashfall,
as the corpse of a flower, in
the small morning light; as her eyes,
framed in tresses of midnight black,
skin dark and cold as Stygian ice,
as I close them, and kiss her,
once, for memory, twice for
love, a farewell, by the
shadow of the
grave.

And I left her, to be buried, alone in her grave.

And I wept, there, by the pool, in the glade, with the sighs
of the willows a consort to my sorrow, under night and
the light of the stars.

Sitting high in the window seat,
below me the throng of a city of
legions, above me a roof and the
vault of the sky, I turn my thoughts
inward, let my hand pluck the
strings, as I send out jeweled notes
to be lost to the breeze.

Upon the grassy, sunlit mound, wind blowing, leaves quaking,
sighing words of sun and rain, the trees speak in weathered tones,
of sun and moon and star and stone. Stalks waving, soil crumbling,
life wakes beneath the ground, and stirring moves to face the sun.
In the early days of spring.

Poetry,
the life of me,
the breath that buoys me,
keeps me over the darkest depths
of death, that which holds my soul intact,
and keeps my spirit whole.

I only wonder if that is all naught but an artists ego, itself covering the transparent reality that may be mine.

Joy, profoundest of
sensations! Ah! To be
lifted on the crest of
surging bliss, to be
graced with the comfort
of quiet euphoria, come
after a day spent in labor,
and finding the simple
comforts of home awaiting.
Joy, profoundest of
sensations!

Love, the fairest, purest joy.
To hear the laughter, high
and sweet, and to see her
running, swift and fleet, as
she flies for the joy,and for
love of the race. Long is her
laughter, fair is her face; her
form expression of poise and
grace, lovely, she, in the dying
light, as she stands there caught
between rest and flight. Lovely
still as night comes on, lovely as
darkness hides her form, lady fair
and pure and sweet, lady; I will
wait for the dawn.

In a city, future past, and the
streets are cold and clean and flat.
Naught living, none dying, a ghost town, way down the way.
Except.
Except for a lone *** of clay, sitting on the sill, of a cold and sterile building, way up high. And there lies growing a small plant, glowing green and red in the morning sun. Growing, growing,
growing still.

See a maiden there,
young and fair, a spring
in her step, and leaves in
her hair. See her stepping,
light as air, as she hangs the
washing from the old pine boughs;
her eyes are bright, her face without
care.

Oh, look and see that maiden there, with a
spring in her step and leaves in her hair.

Long
the falling
rain;
let it fall
and
wash away
my sorrow,
that I
may have
peace,
and not
weariness
in the
times of
my grief:
fall,
rain of my
soul.

Life, the state of living.

Survival, the act of continuing the state of life.

To live, to be whole, to be happy, to bring joy to others.

To survive, to continue the state of life, with no regard for any but oneself.

Consider which one should choose.

Wind
Swells in the sea and
Sky,
Darkening;
My little boat
fares on,
Waiting
For the
World to
Calm.

I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
Infinity?

Love; thorn
in the brier
strand;
hypodermic
in its kisses'
sting-
the breath
of life in
the brittle
womb;
soft succor,
the shoots of
Spring: Peace
in the needles
bite.

Love,

a childs sigh, soft in innocence.
the sun on the heads of the lilies
in the field, the wind in the trees.

Joy,

laughter, high in the morning, low
in the evening. Her hair in the sunset,
ablaze with reflected glory, her eyes,
shining in the light of suns dying; mien
of angels.

Sorrow,

sobs in the stillness of the deepest
night. eyes red rimmed in the
morning light. the sound of a lock
softly clicking; tears on the threshold.

The man strides to the marching
drums, blood hot for the boiling
fray, beside him marches kin and
friends, comrades all for the ******
fray. On roll the marching drums, pipes
skirl and trumpets bray, all to the sound
of stomping boots, all to the waiting
fray.


Now, hark to the trumpets sound,
loud and clear in the morning air,
foemen sighted, foemen there! Out
from the town exceeding fair. Now
comes the faster beat, and comes the
sound of running feet, as men roar with
joy and fear as they rush headlong in
the morning clear, as they run to the
speeding fray.


The man lies on the trampled ground,
and listens to the wrenching sound of
the groans and screams of tortured men,
dying there, on the ****** ground.


Away above, beyond the clouds, and over
the buzzards circling, there through a shining
rent, the man near death a vision sees; an eagle
high, balancing, above the fates of Lords and
men. As his dying breath escapes his lips, and
darkness comes to take him home, the man
hears a distant sound; the eagle calling down
farewell, down to the twisted, ****** fell,
above the loud, tumultuous roar of men
survived from the ****** fray, crying all in
joyous voices, "Victory! Victory!"

Bittersweet the memory.