To saunter through the chiming world,
Downy and white, a cloud burst wafted,
Fresh as the sight of a newborn furled,
A glimpse for mortals gazing gods lofted.
How lovely a way to sail through world,
By streaming to seas or wondrously land,
Fresh as the wave that breaks and curls,
To come from airs breezing from heavens.
In autumn, leaves fall and here is elegy,
Dry are the woods upon their bareness.
In winter, snows creep as they blanket,
White is the sun as it is sailing on high.
In spring, a melting of blood streaming,
Carries new flesh, a green world comes.
In summer, is a light so still and calming,
All creatures sing as they sit on summit.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is - infinite.”
― William Blake
In this room
In ocean flesh,
Our days, replay,
With eyes cut
Out under sheet
Of stars. All is
Not real, screened
For a soul, lost
On the dry lands
We bury ourselves
One day we shall
Wake into the sun,
And bathe in the light
Of unbridled constellation
And voids deeper than
Life, holy and actual
Like drowning flesh,
Come, alive in sky,
Lit by eternal sheen,
Lost memories, grace,
Being burn, new sparkle,
Cast to air, as embers preen.
Crow in the sun so black,
You are blue, a dark shining
On the green innocent lawn.
Crow in the sun creeping,
On land you are awkward,
In the sky you are blotting.
Crow in the laze of the day,
Your eyes are unbalancing
In the gardens overgrown.
Crow in the sun so black,
You are shimmering dread,
On the green unkept lawns.
We were poets
Hearts etched upon our sleeve
The lords of our intent
Words bloomed for all to see.
Each branch of thought considered,
Whittled to express.
Carving the forest in our likeness
We pave the landscape with our breath.
Woods would sway in idle days
Sunkissed glades lay bathed in gold.
Nights waylaid by dancing maids
Cheap ale and tales of old.
Fires burn and flames unfold.
Tender clutch of the cold.
We tend to forget the bargained,
Up rivers and creeks
Paddles, disowned by the meek,
Cast away to distant shores.
Fade to grey.
We become poets once more.
I have seen couples,
So far from each—
Other, on a platform,
Waiting for the next train,
Never touching, yet how
They fondle their mobile
Devices, how softly, sweet,
Without guile nor agenda
They swipe the glass—
As it swoons back in return
With blue lights and alerts,
So dearly needed and answers,
In way words for the machines
Of flesh and the ghost within,
With such personal aplomb
In real notifications of text
And instant message.
In whisper— shadow sings a song.
My call is joined within the hollows,
Only tiny dimpled crests of the sea,
My voice, for rains, round familiar As patch into tune of old shattering
Light. I search for love, sloe in slips
Thru fingering eyes, outcast beyond
And ghostly move into monumental
Futilities of unbearing, leery in flesh
Undeciphered. Make me one lattice
To bind the wind and mark shallows
Mine as I trudge into black, blue sun.
This song— I sing is for lost keeping,
Hear my hush as it breaks for darks—
And I shall love in box, buried, forgot,
Kept at one sight so grave, remaining
As smudge onto stone burnt in a dial
Etched by firing rays of timeless star,
Hear my song— whispers of shadow.