Where are you poet?
You poetess?
I search and become everything:
A pen of the sun's fire
Writing on a slab of jade,
I come face to face with all poets,
The roots of their soul dividing
Themselves dissolving into words
Writing the passionate fire sitting
On pillars of clouds,
A thousand moons surrounding them
Each like some serpent god,
They write the darkness like
Guardians of the night,
A stallar vertigo into the words,
They become like flowers
Of the Resurrection and in a lightning
Flash I am on a terrace of gold
Watching over a field of flora
And the storm's of April's pains
Comes to them each as a moon
In the sorrowing takes each word
And swallows them into verses,
They are the testament of wounds.
And still even more,
All are alone in the abyss they all share,
One man stands tall and says,
"Alone with everybody!"
He smiles as each poet places themselves
In a whirlpool of time,
They find a moment invisible
And make it a mirror,
It reflects forevermore the broken
Images of their past, they piece
Themselves upon a verse of shadows,
A verse is born and a piece of them
Stays in the past.
Suddenly there are those who live,
They are reborn from the womb!
They see daylight in the sorrows
And find happiness in clusters,
A perfect memory where the man
Loved the woman, her touch is like
An immortal fire burning into the focus,
His touch is a cascade of rose petals
On her naked body......
The young poets gather,
The defeat the circular days,
Fantastically naive and flamboyant,
Their moments flare like a sun's
Lost kisses on magnetosphere's outer
Skin,
The procession of new pain
Fills the paper as they write an ancient
Language unbeknownst to them,
Their blood to papyrus, Sanskrit's
Unified language.
I see the poet's in their middle years,
Strong flavors mixed with heavy grief,
The clandar Is splattered in blood
While their dream sails away in paper boats
Sinking in the sea of forgotten hope,
They sculpt words of deep guts
That penetrate my spirit,
Time becomes a race against their pens,
Their fire blue into the jade
And life is lived on a string of theorise,
They become enlivened in the children,
Enormous mouthfuls of hope
Arisen from soils of regret,
And the perfect words ripen
Like a midsummer's harvest,
They spontaneously eat the fruit
Of life's labors and digest words
With seeds for the planting of more.
I turn my face in my search and see
The years turn golden,
These are the poets with life full
In experience and they write like
Youth writes, but written already
With eyes of indecipherable experience,
Their wounds are closed but written
In fresh blood, I could not understand!
They burn and are not consumed,
Their words are eternal in
Endless galleries of Picasso like
Verses, the words penetrate
Leaving me hopeful and confused.
I wonder if I would ever write
The light and the darkened like
They that balance both....
I find all poets in the middle of forever,
I see their walls of frightful memory,
Their home for tomorrow's bloom,
The self knowledge turning in
On itself and becoming wisdom,
They drown themselves in clarity,
Cling to audacious hope,
Remembering the nocturnal nightmare
Of the past, they are endlessly broken,
Always fixing themselves in words.
And I wrote a poem for them in
My mind:
Poets, you little gods,
The fire of life in your pen,
You write the existence
Forevermore on a slab of jade;
I see the souls and angels
Reading a book of every poem,
I see God reading to understand
His strange and wondrous creation
Called the poet.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Where are you poet?
You poetess?
I search and become everything:
A pen of the sun's fire
Writing on a slab of jade,
I come face to face with all poets,
The roots of their soul dividing
Themselves dissolving into words
Writing the passionate fire sitting
On pillars of clouds,
A thousand moons surrounding them
Each like some serpent god,
They write the darkness like
Guardians of the night,
A stallar vertigo into the words,
They become like flowers
Of the Resurrection and in a lightning
Flash I am on a terrace of gold
Watching over a field of flora
And the storm's of April's pains
Comes to them each as a moon
In the sorrowing takes each word
And swallows them into verses,
They are the testament of wounds.
And still even more,
All are alone in the abyss they all share,
One man stands tall and says,
"Alone with everybody!"
He smiles as each poet places themselves
In a whirlpool of time,
They find a moment invisible
And make it a mirror,
It reflects forevermore the broken
Images of their past, they piece
Themselves upon a verse of shadows,
A verse is born and a piece of them
Stays in the past.
Suddenly there are those who live,
They are reborn from the womb!
They see daylight in the sorrows
And find happiness in clusters,
A perfect memory where the man
Loved the woman, her touch is like
An immortal fire burning into the focus,
His touch is a cascade of rose petals
On her naked body......
The young poets gather,
The defeat the circular days,
Fantastically naive and flamboyant,
Their moments flare like a sun's
Lost kisses on magnetosphere's outer
Skin,
The procession of new pain
Fills the paper as they write an ancient
Language unbeknownst to them,
Their blood to papyrus, Sanskrit's
Unified language.
I see the poet's in their middle years,
Strong flavors mixed with heavy grief,
The clandar Is splattered in blood
While their dream sails away in paper boats
Sinking in the sea of forgotten hope,
They sculpt words of deep guts
That penetrate my spirit,
Time becomes a race against their pens,
Their fire blue into the jade
And life is lived on a string of theorise,
They become enlivened in the children,
Enormous mouthfuls of hope
Arisen from soils of regret,
And the perfect words ripen
Like a midsummer's harvest,
They spontaneously eat the fruit
Of life's labors and digest words
With seeds for the planting of more.
I turn my face in my search and see
The years turn golden,
These are the poets with life full
In experience and they write like
Youth writes, but written already
With eyes of indecipherable experience,
Their wounds are closed but written
In fresh blood, I could not understand!
They burn and are not consumed,
Their words are eternal in
Endless galleries of Picasso like
Verses, the words penetrate
Leaving me hopeful and confused.
I wonder if I would ever write
The light and the darkened like
They that balance both....
I find all poets in the middle of forever,
I see their walls of frightful memory,
Their home for tomorrow's bloom,
The self knowledge turning in
On itself and becoming wisdom,
They drown themselves in clarity,
Cling to audacious hope,
Remembering the nocturnal nightmare
Of the past, they are endlessly broken,
Always fixing themselves in words.
And I wrote a poem for them in
My mind:
Poets, you little gods,
The fire of life in your pen,
You write the existence
Forevermore on a slab of jade;
I see the souls and angels
Reading a book of every poem,
I see God reading to understand
His strange and wondrous creation
Called the poet.
For all of you poets.
