all heart and soul and love I gave
my life was yours a willing slave
eternal bond past death I crave
now call me forth from lonely grave

reunion lies in shrouded mist
memory held when last we kissed
for only thoughts of you persist
and pull me on to fearful tryst

I seek your hand in darkened hall
the walls twixt life and death now fall
your ballroom gown stitched from my pall
let music of beyond enthrall

dance with me when the moon is full
in dark of night dance with my soul
with shadow’s deep embrace console
stitch me closed and make me whole

Humm to the tree
rustle with its leaves
listen closely
to its voice
hear from the earth
see the truth
we are
destroying her
roots.

in a room of unimaged beauty
with curtains woven
from threads of unused dreams
and carpets embroidered
by imaginings of crumpled poetry

songs of hope and fantasy
are left unsung
written on blank pages
carefully laid on the piano
whose keys are all black

here is served perfect tea
in exquisite porcelain cups
each place set with polished silver
giving no reflection

the Things That Might Have Been
are the only guests
they appear in their seats
translucent and shimmering
gaining solidity
staring at their perfect tea
in its exquisite porcelain cup

but they do not drink

if two materialize at the same table
they gaze at each other
with pleading eyes
needing with all their fragile existence
an answer

reasons may be exchanged
but not one of them ever
has an answer

they dissolve
hoping to return
for an answer

leaving behind their perfect tea
in its exquisite porcelain cup

What if we silent sit in an empty room
and speak without an uttered word?
What if unconscious poems well up
in us, no trying need there be? What
if strands of grass grow and flowers
bloom while azure skies and white
clouds blow by without a sound be
heard? And what if a kiss for one is
a kiss for all and our hearts and souls
are one without us ever knowing?

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Poetry is the weeping eye
it is the weeping shoulder
the weeping eye of the shoulder
it is the weeping hand
the weeping eye of the hand
it is the weeping soul
the weeping eye of the heel.
Oh, you friends,
poetry is not a tear
it is the weeping itself
the weeping of an uninvented eye
the tear of the eye
of the one who must be beautiful
of the one who must be happy.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru

Let Us Go

At great risk we go
through certain half deserted
streets.  The lights burn holes
in my contemplations.  The spine
of poetry is fallen and lies
spattered on the ground

Go with me. The vocabulary
inspired by the sea air will
carve runes in the granite.

We travel light. Our skin, like
canvas ingrained with words,
bleeds.

We drop to our knees in
silent supplication.  Sounds
paint where rhyme
leaves
trails.

There is no tomorrow.  


Caroline Shank

Under the willow he held her hand
professed his love with a golden band

She looked into his eyes and thought awhile
then professed her thoughts with a golden smile

I like you a lot, to be with you is good fun
to spend the rest of my life, sorry your not the one

Don't look at me that way this is not your end
with time your heart will surly mend

So, she left him there perched on one knee
under the bows of the old willow tree

I think the sun has grown jealous
Of my friendship with the moon
I prefer dusk to dawn
And midnight instead of noon