Surrealist Cut-up

vanishing illuminated darkness
enveloping    into figure              
Faintly       

Figurative-literal**

Fain­tly illuminated figure
vanishing into
enveloping darkness

Surrealist Cut-up

    boatman       Purple haze
contemplative pouring
the sky as lone
              rides the horizon.
       islanding
into the lake,

Cubist

Arc to the horizon
apparition, brooding figure,
a form rides in twilight haze
junction of the worlds
into a slither of light.

Literal**

Purple haze islanding the sky
pouring into the lake,
as lone boatman
rides contemplative
into the horizon.

I want to feel the breeze on my unveiled face
and my unlocked hair, this morning,
I am walking barefoot.
I want to feel the earth on my feet.
How she has gone warm
under the anger of the days.
Or how she shivers in the days
of agony, the cold winters.
Before the night was done,
I plucked and hid some in my pocket.
There it stays, the darkness,
close to my heart. Sometimes
the stars smile, pomegranate cloves,
bleeding sliced under my knife.
There is a wave receding,
stealing the earth under my feet away.
A projectile flew with the birds,
racing them a while, but it drops now
into the water in a thud.

Log floating in the green stream:
jetting away in the flow,
now I'll stop in the thicket,
uncovering the cricket-song
trapped in the reed-locks.
Splash! that's a tadpole miss;
The trouts, they are laughing.
Gone! that's an angler's bait in vain.
Cranes have got their picking.
There's a hundred suns around.
This is a bubbly babbly morning.
Onward forward I flow, reed in tow.

How shall I hymn you,

majestic presence? Shall I

be the wide sea, and

weep, overcome in your vastness?

or, evaporate, seeking you?

At the newshour on the TV station,
beamed to my lounge sofa tonight,
the vignette visual of peace:
a child being rushed to triage,
all limbs bound in bandage -
now, we are safe.
Our soldiers too, from the skies.
No casualties.
Only collateral damage
signaled in the sobbing siren.

I pressed my ear to the ***** of the
silence before dawn.This is the hour
when birds wake up, contemplating
on what to sing. The sky's smudged
in dispersing clouds. Priests are
washing up for the morning prayer.
Tots plead to sleep more. Here I find
the blessed light that trudged past
aeons and aether, now scattering
past the screen of mists, illuminating
your face, blooming over lotus lakes.
You were up, weeping with the winds
wheezing through the streets all night.
No bells, no flowers, no incense
rosaries or hymnals, this my chapel
is the other shrine in this home.
Now I kneel hearing the throb of love.
One, nameless, the continuum that
here I call myself and there, you.