Were you born in '98?

so was I.
let's do the maths.
that makes you fifteen,
even sweet sixteen.

Methuselah, not my name.
not even my middle fame, unclaimed.

Course meaning clear!

Lived a long time coming,
Picked up yesterday my three year old boy,
Third of a third of a third of a third
Of a half of me,
Who I only see once a year,
And we fell in love once again,
all over as is our style,
Annually, annuellement.

Went to the cemetery
Go once a year,
Where they have buried
The lineage.

On the first,
From near two millennium ago,
And upon the each of and the
every one of his descendants,
Psalm 37:37.

They wrote
upon their markers
David's words

לז  שְׁמָר-תָּם, וּרְאֵה יָשָׁר:    כִּי-אַחֲרִית לְאִישׁ שָׁלוֹם. 37          
  Mark the man of integrity,
  and behold the upright;
  for there is a future for
  the man of peace.

An enticing blessing, and curse,
A passed down warning goal.

What's this got to do me,
I got love, poetry, and
French, geometry, and history,
And cute boys on Facebook to study!

Plenty.
You were once three.
You will be someday
Not just fifteen, sixteen, but
Three hundred and fifteen
Just like me.

Your cells will be embedded in
Others,
So take care mr and miss 1998,
On that banner, wrapped
across your chest,
If you win the contest
Of a good life,
Better write down something smart
That is worth living for,
On the palm of you hand.
Tattoo it where you will see it
Everyday, and in your mind
Inescapable.

Then press it upon the skin
Of that three year baby boy,
For that is what this has to do with
You.

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I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Somedays, the tide only laughs
at the sandbags we put up.
When the ocean of emotion
breaks with waves above our hearts,
we swim or drown.

The swell of current overrides
and riptides pull us down.
Move parallel to shore against the tide
till firmer ground is found.
Swim.

r ~ 4/6/14

Lover,
Huntsman,

Burn a dove's heart in your--
campfire.
Serve it to me
in a saucer of tea.
"May your smiles fade to red
& green, sire."
The page will say.
In reply.
And like that our love will die

My body has begun its chorus
of holy fertile futures,
it was time to stop praying for the apocalypse,
we had begun to grow old.

This return to my oceanic blood
provokes ol' Sancho's proverbs.
I become a dreamer of goats all around
as I find our common nature
in the salty blood of the earth.

After so many years of gathering salt,
from youthful pupils
wild on becoming Oedipus,
I finally swallowed my heart,
-it had been leaping into other ribs
then panicking at the site of another cage,
and damaging the very thing that had become its home.
I decided I couldn't bear another ******,
How did this need for love become butchery?

So, I recalled the ocean
the way the abyss gave life to my salty motion,
I've emptied my sorrow into the sea and became free.
Now, my heart swims in mortal infinity.

The apocalypse has come and gone.
My land has begun to sing with renewal.