Breathe still for me, composed upon the sheet
you wind about my heart.
The moon is full tonight.
Her breathing is in time with yours
upon a moonlit bed. If she could die,
she would, to be as full of you
as I am. Her shining smooths
your brow where time has creased it.
How can she be more full than you,
shining, as you are, within me?
My love, if all the world must sleep
within itself, then let us ask the moon
to waken us. Perhaps she will oblige
and wrap her silver arms around your waist
as you lie dreaming of the moon upon your face.

after the rain
I see raindrops glisten
on your tender breast

Truth and Beauty had a quarrel, so I've heard,
(my ear pressed to the keyhole of desire.)
I heard one say, "I saw you flirt with Liar
on the couch, where Lust had gorged himself,
and later, sated as he was, he stood and watched
you play the fool, while Liar played you false."
The other answered, "Love, I could not help myself,
for Liar took your form. I beg you to forgive me."

I often think of words like these, especially
when walking on the beach, where waves are clasping
hands together, whispering foamy words in
salted ears; or in the woods, where one pine
strokes another in the wind, and says,
"O my lover, yes my lover,
rub me that way one more time."

Tell me if you will, dear one,
of what was meant to be-
I did not know the tears you shed
were shining there for me.

When we were young, I held your hand
and whispered in your ear-
but when I looked into your eyes,
your words I failed to hear.

I should have known your heart was true,
and given fair to me-
but now I know no good will come,
no good, for you and me.

your smile
is all the poetry
i crave

in the night
lightning heats the summer sky
no warmer than her smile

The blood that rushes in the womb
unfolds the waking of desires.
My fingers gather round the cord
and pull me, heaving, to your smiles.

These are the hands that bring you into the world,
and these are the hands that take you out of it.
These are the hands that cling for dear life
to a capsized boat in the sea.
These are the hands that wield a knife
that cuts your life to save it.
Some of these hands are cracked and torn
from all the labor that tears them.
Some of these hands reach out to a man
who despairs of receiving deliverance.
Some of these hands belong to the women
who lift up and give strength to the sufferers.
Some of these hands are soothing a child
that cries in a night full of sorrow.

Some of these hands are praying to God
and some of them pray to Jehovah.
Some of these hands are praying to Allah
and some of them pray to Buddha.
Some of these hands pray to the Spirit of Man
and some of them pray to Brahma.
Some of these hands pray to a Higher Power
and some of them pray for a sober tomorrow.
Give thanks to the hands of all those you esteem.
Remember the hands of love, of hope, and of dreams.

the lotus of spring
eight petals floating in torrents
freshened by sudden rain

He huddled in the woods,
In the trees, in the grass,
Clutching Spring to his *****.

Damaged, cracking, his envy
Frozen in time, he knows
She cannot remain much longer.

The tighter he holds
The more she yearns
For her freedom.

Melting his lust to nothing
With a final lurch
She slips his frigid embrace.

She yawns. She stretches.
She breathes. And we,
The all-too human children

Craving her renewal
Believe in warmth again
And what it means to us.

all the days of sea and sand
must surely curl away

relentless as the ebb
and flow of tides

as shorebirds hunt and peck
in sand and grit their lives away

other birds have made themselves
at home next to the crystal shore

their offspring pink
and warbling in the sun

young females preen their plumage
scrawny males hover in lust

later on the clouds come open
and all the shorebirds

damp and shivering
huddle under the eaves

fragrant with salty spray
teasing the senses

as the shorebirds
shimmer in the gloom

under boardwalks of dusk
and ice cream nights

They say that only man
can know of death-
but you, old dog, you knew

the pain within your eyes
would mingle with the sadness
in our own. How tactful

was the vet, as her tender needle
probed your shaved flesh.
A final shudder of your lungs,

then all was still. No more
lusting after scruffy *******,
no more fetch the ball,

no more flying disc, ragged from
your teeth, no more the eager whine
when we arrive. Perhaps someday

we will be as strong and true
to life as you have been
to the death that took

your pain away
and left us longing
for your furry love.

I once loved a girl without fortune or fame-
The gold with no glitter-
The pearl of no price.

Her heart was the gem I could not obtain-
The gold without glitter-
The pearl without price.

My heart full of passion, no love in her voice-
The gold lacking glitter-
The pearl had no price.

Today she lies deep in a grave of her choice-
The gold lost its glitter-
The pearl lost its price.

In the valley of forever
where yesterday once ruled
we walked in hand together
in country spare and cruel.

I let the child within myself
embrace another's heart
but soon I found myself deceived
alone, and more apart.

The soul that yearns for solace
seeks another place and time
a place where truth and righteousness
are king and queen in mind.

Such journeys are but simple paths
bestrewn with bitter roses
that pressed within an ancient book
once opened, never closes.

The man-god stands apart,
burnishing his youth.

The sword he clutches drips
with gore more green than red.

The sisters hover round
her broken frame and murmur,

Pity, pity. Their tresses hiss
and snarl, coiling, writhing,

coiling, writhing. Her serpents
lap her clotting blood. Her sisters

stretch their leather wings
and fly to purge the bitter gall

of their revenge, singing,
Sorry sister, Better you than us.

the winter tree
how it yearns to be
the summer tree

I thought I heard her footstep on the stair,
the ghost of sorrow. Lingering on the staircase
of my dreams, she curled up like a ball

at the feet of longing. I had forgotten all
about her, after she kept another's company.
But there she was, bitter and alone

once again. What was sorrow now to me?
Only remembrance of how it once was-
the furtive glance, the stolen kiss,

the hidden measure of time passed
hand to hand. Time is what I have
for her no longer, though the memory of her

presses like a twisted nerve on an irregular heart.
Let her leave her fragrance on another's bed
where ghostly sorrow longs to rest her weeping head.

frosted autumn moon
shining in the bottom
of my saki cup

My lover's not so commonplace-
Strong of mind, and fair of face-

She paints her nails, she paints her toes-
Who knows where my lover goes?

The birds fly here and everywhere.
They even nest within her hair.

They sing a song of fated love.
They scatter in the skies above.

When she walks by, leaves in the trees
Whisper her name. Or is it the breeze?

She loves me not. Who is to blame?
She does not even know my name.

It smells of dead smoke and stale beer.
A faded barfly warms an ancient stool.
Her cigarette stabs at stale air.
The sax man solos. He's cute, she thinks.
He plays a lick, leers at her, and winks.

This is not a lover's kiss
nor nightingale's delight-
this is neither cri de coeur
nor passion burning bright.

This is not a young girl's wish
nor whispers in a breeze-
these are merely careless words
that lovers beg from me.

Spinning in her silken gyre,
all the bugs obey her laws.
The gods bestow their plain desire.
Dear girl, the fly awaits your jaws.

Monday killed her, murdered in the dawn.
Wednesday bore the box wherein she lay.
Tears of Thursday saddened all the ground.
Friday swore of vengeance for the crime.
Saturday, indifferent, held his peace.
And Sunday ****** all the days to hell.