Luminous moon
Spring midnight skies
Sparkles like a thousand and one
Diamond love sighs

We gaze with love tenderly ablaze
Your beams golden
through the misty haze
Like a Sweet sunflower
Surreal with loving dreams

Your beauty is fine wine
Like a bohemian ballerina
And a vineyard deep
And sweet with moonlight

Art music and poetry is sublime
Curvaceous it transcends things
Like clouds flowers and rain
At its finest it can soothe the pain
Sensuous its crescendos and balm

First kisses waltz to fine wine caresses
Fine waves of sweet bliss
Salsa in their own way
To moonlit heavenly shores

One can caress it within
The gaze lobes hips and palms
Of their love
In the rose and sunflower dreams
Of their iris soul
To feel more whole

Luminous moon spring midnights
Sunflower beams golden dreams
A thousand and one
Diamond love sighs

Reynaldo Casison

Symphony of love rhythms,
Like candles and flowers,
Sighing, weeping and blushing
Side by side,
Poetry and Songs,
Caressing like friends and lovers
Within sweet melodies,
Blend and waltz of genres
Sunshine moonlight and stars
Within rose serenades
and
sensuous seasons
Heavenly
Moonlit waves to our Loves
Lighthouse shores

Reynaldo Casison

Your Beauty awakens my love
To Sing,
I may not in verse sing quite
As sweet as the nightingales
Yet to me your Exotic Beauty does
And does what it does
Is sweet music for our love
To caress and exquisitely see
duets of modest majesties

Reynaldo Casison

The king ordered silence,
No more song, no more dace,
No more daft scratching of that pen.

So I know just what I'll do,
I'll strike him over the head with my lute,
Then he will be silent too.

1
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain,
Everything is possible...
When one is washed in cognac,
Drenched in sorrow,
Haunted by the unknown...
And when one refuses to remain a stone.
So why—
Do you consult the coffee cups?
Why—
Do you ask the endless questions?
And why—
Did you come to the sea,
If you fear the journey?

2
Between October and October,
Like the warm sugar flowing from the heart of fruit...
Leave your fate to God, and sleep.
For your ******* come into this world by destiny,
And by destiny, they fade away...

3
Love will come in its time...
So wear your Egyptian caftan.
I now recall the cotton fields of the Delta...
Sit wherever you like,
For the piano concerto
Will erase time,
Erase you,
Erase me,
And erase the burdens we have carried since birth.
Love will come in its time...
And passion will come in its time...
For the piano concerto
Washes all things in camphor and oil,
Melts the ice off the faces of lakes,
Summons strange butterflies,
And brings forth fields anew.
So let things be natural... effortless...
For the piano concerto
Finds its own solutions.
Love will come in its time...
And the piano...
Will call us into its watery chamber,
And I do not know what it will say...

4
Everything is possible...
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain.
Tchaikovsky—
Now passes like a bird through Petersburg’s squares,
Slipping like a green dream from Montparnasse,
Drifting through the memory of roses,
Gathering the yellow leaves of Europe's forests,
Praying in Hagia Sophia,
Weeping in the sacred halls of Najaf,
Between mirrors and golden domes...

5
Everything is possible...
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain.
So wear your Kurdish caftan...
I do not know why—
But I recall Mosul in spring,
The water reeds swaying in the marshes,
The orchards of Al-Rasafa,
And the writings God inscribes
In roses and gold,
Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab
At sunset...

6
Good morning, jasmine... are you well?
The piano concerto
Lit the fire for us... then vanished.
Now, I recall the orchards of Al-Rasafa,
The shanashil that line the banks of Al-A’zamiyah,
And the writings God inscribes
In roses and gold,
Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab
At sunset...

7
Good morning, jasmine... are you well?
The piano concerto
Lit the fire for us... then vanished.

I think I'll go across the sea,
And study music in Italy.
Leave with only the clothes on my back,
My jacket pocket full of little literatures.

Or should I study English arts,
In England?
I doubt I'd read much,
There's not a lot to see in a London fog.

Every splash of ink,
Every drag of this pen.

Is another gift in the face of common man,
An honor that is art to the human soul.

For if not for this music,
Spirits would grow old, crumbling in the cold.