It is silence that blossoms
While mere words wither
In empty spaces, echoes,
Calling
“beloved, come hither”

A flower knows not
for whom its petals shown
Yet its fragrance,
seems so personal
As if meant for me alone.

Nature doesn't end at cement.
It is
a pour
            i
              n
                  g
          ­            over into

                                                  space

  ­           of the Manifest,
in all its twisting,
reaching ways.
It finds a hallow and calls it home.

Nature is               lonely
but never alone.
Mesh of living weave,
water altered
in the shape of its dwelling,
looking out over      horizons
wrapped around
its e x p a n s e .

Alive and s w e l l i n g ,
in dance and song,
beckoning.

Snake makes a feast of his tail.

One Mother is hungry.

You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hand,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
IN ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion see-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

Night, smeared
In the morning sky
Melancholic feelings
Casts a shadow
The fire is doused
Only ashes remain

skeletal works of art
hidden...mostly
seen working with cartilage and gristle
flesh and skin covered
soft touch and finger triggered
a face of death
a new born crying
the moan of love making
responsibility and learning
constant understanding
looks of a sister to brother
the knowing of finite living

I am the salmon
that struggled all the way up to the bear.

everything unravels
a spring wound down
elastic stretched too much
what a wonderful time of life
resting content after all the partying
not everyone enjoys such elongated hangovers

Everything would come to an end,my love
             even the frenzied season of love we celebrate.
In loneliness I muse, dreamily
             pour the molten gold of my heart, incessantly
in to molds one after another;
            on this one I don't have to remind myself not even once,
in my consciousness  this abstract is darkly painted
                 on it's live silvery screen:

She sits waiting patiently for me to come to rest,
                 in that secluded, quiet house
where love and longing, sighs and moans,
                  even the poetic cadence, my only aphrodisiac,
like many hued evening clouds,
                       disappear in the dark, till the next day dawns.