Huge cumulus clouds,
Exploding into the blue,
Shadowed by raven.

Out of shell, she broke,
Goddess face, Bottecelli painting—
'The Birth of Venus.'

He wrote in the mornings, she recited to him at night,
He always made breakfast, she made dishes disappear,
His garb was quite frumpy, and hers, made of spun gold,
He struggled with fashion, song birds would dress her,
He thought his poems looked best in moving candlelight,
She made all the fires and lit candles with her eyes.
Once, he was embarrassed and said to her,
'How can you live like this with me in a hovel?'
She said it reminded her of Plato's Cave.
At readings he looked out and saw sinking eyes,
Now he has her read all his poems, it works
Wonders that way, and after-parties are strange,
Everyone keeps staring and asking for her
Name.  She gives cryptic answers and winks
At him.  The poet was running out of words
And thought his days with her were waning.
But she said her heart was kept in a precious
Box of symbols, of words, only he could write.  
She said that it was written in the sky, that poetry
Was dying and that he was the cure.  He told
Her that the stars were lost at night, and fading
While she sparkled unfailing, and many times
They tasted each others tears, many times
The world stopped spinning, he knew
It was her, she felt it was him.  To all
Others, their one bedroom flat was small,
Yet to them, it was the Palace Athene.

When love was young and bore an immigrant
Soul, how fresh and adventurous the years
And brinkmanship, my rite, was took for grant,
Aye, in my flotsam and jetsam, I spent no tears
Which by and by a greedy sea of beginnings
Has left no bounty, but cargo delivered or turned
To wood adrift, which built but useless things,
Children love tossing in fires bonny burned.
Here I lie, on the waters edge, searching—
For something to contain my emptiness,
My wanderlust, but like shy waves lurching,
I wrestle now, toward land, not loneliness.
Though I spent my life as a flag unfurled,
A disembodied soul is without this world.

Two chattering crows,
Spells drone cast in hazel tree,
  .  .  .  Trined necromancers.

I saw you in dream,
We walked together,
Kaleidoscopic,
Like truly it had once been,
The comfort of always you in hand,
The sun's caress, the open skies,
A secret valley, fields beyond
The first breaking,
Dawns perfection,
Then music, newly made
Played on, seeping
A soft étude of warm drops,
Rain so gently dripping,
The whole meadow began to move,
Yellow butterflies and red winged warblers
Wafting round circuitous, ceremonious,
Soothed in simple harmony,
We made our barefoot way,
Toes in the sands,
Passed lofty streams, came upon
Golden gleams, glens, surprised
By lake shores seams and slowly,
Without fortune, gazed
Into the creaking sadness
Of blue
Reflections.
Suddenly, we slid, fell
Amid rolling tears
Filling our eyes,
And my hands reached
Out into nothingness . . .
Demise,
You,
Vapourized.
I awoke into steadfast
Silence and smoke
Of low, deepest night,
Tarnish taste of sloe
Burn and cold blackness,
Hopeless, banished,
Before the running after fall,
Near inklings of those
Only, once known,
Unblemished,
Hues, fading,
Lost,
Colours.

Shipwrecked at sea, wholly lost
In the green pools of her eyes,
Little oceans reflecting cool stars
And shear, lighted murky moons,
Her branching kelps of hair lashed
Me to the blinding poles of never.
More and maddened she dredged
Me adrift with oceans birds flying,
Fish and tear jerky waves of darkling
Deep maelstrom swells and cresting
*******, the casting lines of thighs,
And curled toes, towing me under,
Till I was sweetly drowning, again,
Lost asunder in her flowing bodies
Of holy well, mystic seas and ocean.

Seeing eyes at night  .  .  .
Sentinel owl gliding strikes—
Mouse under dead leaves.

He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.

Snowy crags and tarns,
Puffed clouds blistering sun,
  .  .  .  Penultimate heaven.

What a work is man,
Forever building, lamenting,
Ruined temples in sand,
Foot stepping on the moon,
Sunning in tropical Cancún,
What stolid, myriad ways?
So many hands, numbing days,
Living ever fast, never heeding past,
Dressed to **** with a thirty round clip,
Formal, endangered—
Penguins in the desert.

Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married?  Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.

I stack the round stones
From the river, my sculpture grows—
Crow will knock it down.