Of Bedlam and Prayers


The heart Is love in Bedlam
soft soled like a man singing
a word of  yahaak-ku
standing so close  that his
shoulders almost touch me
in prayer,
claims to be my love's clone.


But my love lies inside a hill
in the song of the Whip-poor-will
where my blood *** is running
in streams of ***** desire, and
never tires of singing.


River banks and fevered coffers
liquid gold and frozen sun
pumping in soft blue veins,
my blood is red as love it came
shining on spills of disarray.


A kiss away, only a kiss away
all those dark corners
of yours and mine gone.


In the long drawn space of his tomb,
in time, he asked for my death
pink in fragrant flox to cover
a good wide earth.


On my flowered knees I wept
cheek to the straining blade
pressed an ear to hear,
holding my breath,
glistening...listening
for his faint breath to cycle
into a heartbeat of spring.

he wore self inflicted
wounds like a Purple Heart
awarded for an ill spent life

he loved his country
for what he thought
it once was

he loved his country
for what he thought
it should be

he never loved his
country as it actually was

love haunts the
battlefields
of memories
giggling

Cream: Badge

Suffern
10/31/13
jbm

If I look long enough I'll see
mammoth bones with butcher marks,
a broken flint blade between the ribs
- an empty crib, Madonna's face, a swan
on a snake with two heads - instead
of lightly stained pine grains
on the back of a dusty shelf half-
full of myself, old books and odd things
with lost words waiting in the wings.