Gentle water lord, of your traces;
Four seasons show in your graces:

Breezy spring, wafts, leaves so soon,
Lost loves, colours longing for white,
Light jewel.

Hottest summer, moves, in sleepy
Sun, all her ways soothed, running,
Milky days.

Autumn shakes of mellow webbing
Leaf as you arrive, majesty's thief,
Gliding lithe.

Frozen winter, low, pure and pale,
Never demure, as your wings aloft,
Flake so fair.

She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.

Softly she tread, floating above the clover
Seas.  Suddenly lost, bold honey bees forgot
The scent of flowers blooming.  Iridescent wings,
Humming birds, monarchs, dragons, flying in
Procession and the mushrooming dew now rising
Began to swell, raining upwards into the mystic
Blue heavens and the trees beyond that clearing
Stood longingly amazed, so green their spying
Gaze, when all the myriad flowers loosely fell
And all the gathering of colours faintly dimmed.

She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.

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.

Make me naked by petal, walking by vine
and just a seed, two lip pieces, tulip
then bury me in you i know you’re mine
rushing slowly soil, sunk, blossom tip

give me kiss for color, coming on to
you. On you, no limbs but falling leaf
by leaf, bipedal, standing—but bent, you
blow the dandelion dust, white, belief

is something but lust for a wish to come
true. I have to lay here next to you.
It’s spring already, by trunk gold bees hum,
new roots are sprouting from the wish you blew.

Fold you over, fold me bare and red
then dwindle, unkindle, lay your sleeping head.

It nerves me when you love me ‘cause you don’t.
I’m jealous when you tell me, “Never do
anything I wouldn’t” For then I won’t
ever wish I could not be with you.

I do not know the thing’s you do, but know
the things you say you wouldn’t even try.
If I had friends like you do, then you would go,
though you justify every single guy.

I cannot stand this double standard; love
should be a thing we share – not give. And take
my hand. I reach to fingers of
your giving hand, which gives me fake for sake

of your forsaken mind, which loves not me –
then who? – and does your heart? No – not physically.

I do not want to dance with you if you
are watching all the other people dance.
And though I’m not a dancer, no – it’s true;
don’t think about the tightness of his pants.

I know you want to kiss me, close your eyes
so you can feel the lips, the hips, not see:
this body’s moves and dips are not some guy’s,
but long for you, and all belong to me.

Watch me as you dance, step on my toes
just so I know your dancing thoughts are mine.
The ballerina in your head that shows
you spin with me – I think it needs a wind.

You’re not a wind up toy but love a spin,
take me for one, I’ve won; I want to win.

I’d like to idle with you as a rock
but you’re the sea and moving constantly.
One day I asked to sit in quiet: talk,
you didn’t want to think, but crash and be

the ocean (thoughtless filled with life), a wave
(a moment on the shore, or rock away).
I am that rock; you taunt me, and i crave
to be the sand swept up in sea, to sway

in your finicky storm. I’m not a stone,
but the sand I wished to be. Your song
is hazardous, monotonous. A drone
of boats I cannot hear sails on.  

You are the silent siren, of the sea
who breaks all men from stone to sand ennui.

distraught hands, wrinkle face, cracked out lighter
a fire used for smoking cigs and crack;
a burning which you are the only fighter,
but you like the burn, the empty black

inside your lungs, and organs, void of life,
but you are you, still moving, to – crash,
deteriorate, into roaches rife
with living. You are alive, but as hash-

marked-meat, a vessel for the vultures
yelling as crows, with anger in silence
and calm resentment, held with stiff sutures
like a dead doll, button eyes pulled for pence

or dime. Ordained as evil, you are human
I’m here to hear you cries, as hell is moving.

Deep in the chalk of gloaming flame,
The tawn and pale, of moan and loon,
Where under leaves of forest shades,
The crescent rails of the riding moon,
Here is when the quick blood running
Drains with shear seepings and looks,
With eyes agape, small game stunned
Over pines and green hemlock wood,
The ferryman wings and clawing tears,
Whose silent strike and low red raking
Blasts unto an indifferent lane of peers,
This is the house of apparition's name,
A mages fugue, muffled muses reprise;
The **** song which creeps as sun dies.

I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well.  Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog.  Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.