Moments pass empty,
Lest I sit forever.

Calling ritual,
Tied to the mountain.

Empty home,
Smudge with smoke.

For between it all,
I envision the Gods.

Translating the language
Is difficult enough..

In house made warm letters run,
Bright poems let, in winter sun—
The dreams of day a lively school,
As songbirds gleam at vernal pools,
Apparitions of youth— fly in and go,
A love blew held in wings, undertow,
Little things now steeping with peace,
Cloudy thoughts set aflame, released,
A lost woman revisioned— unknown,
Is conjured, screening real as a poem.

I take my pencil
and draw two lines,
two points of escape
into the horizon line.

I draw a road
to walk through
the white blindness
of time.

I picture myself
on the road,
two points of leakage
behind, to drain the void.

Happily I get lost,
in the round bend of the road,
and become a hobo
in a new found equator.

a golden dusk

this blindness

rising a sun
in the sidereal night

my vortex

spiralled path
from nothing
to nothing

a golden dusk

delusion

11.11.14

of crying violin on cello moonbeams
spending my spinning around
wet, filled eyelets, drumming in my heart,
rising me up, bringing me close,
under a delicate chin,
drawing the bow across my breast,
to a ledge, poses me delicately on a  quiet impasse, brings me
off the edge; varying from key to soft
then growing again,  impossible, so
to describe
orchestrally.

I am always seeing the seasons changing
the hottest summer breeze fall leaves
cold winter snows spring roses
dawns and darkness
crimson ochres
grasses green drenching
clear drop rains, ice and cold,
turning reds and oranges fallen leaves
your eyes being the clearset
green of forests the scent
of wintergreen freshness of a lucky Irish lad on spartan turf seeing
his love. His four leaf (c)lover.

au naturel no hormones nor seed
*******
nature made, me
no viagara no ddt,
definitely
no preservatives in,
no bionics or
genetic alteration
there is nothing
could make you as sick,
as my reflections.