ride the night
   on fiery wings
   beyond the moon
   to the one you love

lie open-eyed
    clothed only
    in you nervous skin

feel the whisperings
   of the forest
   under a star-speckled
   summer sky

hear deer
   rustle through dry leaves
   on ingrained paths
    
breathe in the night air
    in deep drunken draughts

let your mind wander
    across oceans

be alive

no dreams tonight
though the moon does shine bright
yet clouds make it look
a little bit like a crook

they shroud its pale shine
misty rags do entwine
even hide the whole disc

then again with a whisp
a distorted appearance
suggests perseverance
     of the heavenly body

we love its continuity
amid life‘s ambiguities
welcome the now shiny round face
with a heartfelt embrace

it is the night
lit by the moon  
    best if it’s full
that gives strange shadows to familiar things
when poets are supposedly inspired
to write about their pain   their love  
     often the same
important thoughts of life and death
their joys of the quotidian   and
that you catch the day
and live it like it were your last

    you never know
    just a split second
    and your life has turned into your past

benignly, though, the moonlight introduces softer thoughts
of passion and of the beloved
    distant in space but always close in mind
romantic moments lingering in afterthoughts

some times  I think  that if it were not for the distance
that always separates those who have pined
for their reunion
the world’s treasure of poetry might just be half
of what it is today

the same may well be true for all the lines
penned under tears about that unrequited love
addressed to those unwilling subjects of desire
who often  in the course of writing
turn into objects of the writers’ ire

the moonlight’s pristine shine
    in fact a mere reflection of the sun
for a few hours of the night
changes our vision
opens up doors to different worlds
    full of desire, hope, and desperation
allows us glimpses of ourselves
that daylight never shows

we feel we can speak words
under the pale light of the moon
or the dark corners of the night
that would not make much sense
under the brilliance of the sun

the quiet splendor of the moonlight’s grace
lets us experience that other space
we tend to close and keep apart
in our hasty tour of every day

that’s why
in our few calm moments
we all should listen to what they
    our poets
have to say about the night
the moon’s  strange light
and how it keeps their thoughts in flight

Little and cute dog


Whose dog is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite angry though.
He was cross like a dark potato.
I watch him pace. I cry hello.

He gives his dog a shake,
And screams I've made a bad mistake.
The only other sound's the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The dog is little, cute and deep,
But he has promises to keep,
Tormented with nightmares he never sleeps.
Revenge is a promise a man should keep.

He rises from his cursed bed,
With thoughts of violence in his head,
A flash of rage and he sees red.
Without a pause I turned and fled.

The orchid is flowering
Opening,
a living mandala
Next to my bed
I hear it in my dreams
It's telling me very strange things
About the chemistry between us
And what being a flower really is
And what it really means.

There's a lot to learn.

The orchid whispers in chemical symbols

I danced through the night one night
I drank water in the desert
The sweetest taste, I've ever known
I heard a sound I've never heard before
The buzzing of Chi
Blowing in
while the curtains fluttered
In the night time wind.

Our time I know is limited
Forever wilts away

But while the orchid is flowering
That's for another day

I find myself longing for the scent of the night and at least
One more dream to go.

When people ask me
Why poetry
Why not pick a paying profession

Take hold this truth
That I'm laying on you
In which there is a valuable lesson

If you do what you like
You're going to find
Life holds treasure in wonder

Instead of the dough
Taking you out in its tow
And then pulling you under

When you're doing things
Think more the gifts they bring
And not money to be made

When people ask me
Why poetry
Do I really need to say

There's a valley leading down to a stream which ambles down to a river rushing down to the big wide open sea.

I have followed flat stones skimming, followed dreams and followed women, but there's nothing quite like swimming in the cool and without fear

while the fishes tickle me
I tickle trout and that's my tea with chipped potatoes
homely grown.

The garden needs some managing and like me the vines are ageing with the weight of countless crops and the sunshine drops in almost casually which pleases me no end.

Robins on the rooftop and the peartrees are in bloom, must make room for several bottles of the best homely brewed wine.

Next time I'll bring a backpack for the bric-à-brac of which there's plenty in the ancient market streets,
but in this, the peace and quiet where my mind finds its own balance I am happy living far away from any throng in any city any day.

Don as in Quixote waves a fond farewell to me
and the donkey doesn't seem to care a jot.

Stimulants that stimulate
that simulate excitement,
uppers in between the
tragedies we all have seen
filed away

lift the childproof cap and
Zap.
we all converge along the corners
where life can walk along with
shadows,
barely seen and never felt.

Tinker, Tailor, Norman Mailer
books to prop you
read to stop you
words to mop your brow,

and anyway
Portnoy
has a complaint to
complain about every day.

I followed the star
it led me to an Inn,
a bar
no stable,
no straw
no baby and what's more
the beer was warm

not a wise move.