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Looking at the full moon, kerosene flame says,
On my forehead, draw a mark of royalty.

When you are covered, in the new moon
Yet I, with the light, go on lighting.

Hearing this the earthen lamp, guffawed
People loves more, in worship-prayer.

Moon smiled and said, "Listen, both of you."
You both are equally meritorious, there is no shame.
The wind is chasing trees,
I hear the green leaves
And I hear the green leave,
Unfortunately
I see a desert giving birth
To another sea
I was wrong.
She became the ocean
because she was torn.

Before she fell in love with the storm
She was enamoured by the trees
The nature surrounding her
And its delicate seeds
The lake was who she was
And she hoped that would be her all -

But the storm struck her.

It struck, ******, and stole
What was left of her whole
Her innocence, her soft soul
All ripped and discarded by the swirling ghoul
Needless to say, it left a deep hole
One that would never heal, one no-one could behold

She become the ocean so it was she who would control.
The storms in her palm, the monsters of her own
Monster she became, bold yet cold
The ocean’s depths let no mercy be shown.

But what still remained the same was her soul -
It was the same water, the same heart
The same desire, the same start
The same softness, in a hidden part
She did not want to see another torn apart.

She commanded the storms, an ocean of power
Protected the weak with the comfort she showered
Under her rule, the real monsters cowered.
In the world of the bad, it was she who towered.
continuation of my poem 'Changes', the first part of which is on my profile
The river is quiet
with velvety darkness.
The moon leaves her perch,
the clouds as her garment.

A trail of dreams,
lucent with meaning,
battered, not broken,
follows, careening.


He rowed through the bayou,
  Searching for the stars;
But the branches of the cypresses
  Had captured them in jars.
His little iron lantern,
  Flick’ring kernel of light,
Won’t discern though it burns
  Gold as sylvite.

You saw him there,
  A statue of wax;
You took your hammer
  And shattered the glass.
Though, like a bird,
  He’d molted his cloak,
You remembered the password—
  To which he awoke.


You did not know (for how could you?)
  That I was all alone.
But still you deigned to look at me
  And bind my broken bone.

My anxious wings had taken flight;
  The perch bore not a trace—
You taught me how to not recoil
  When human hands embrace.

You didn’t know what you had done.
You didn’t know what you had done.
You couldn’t have known what you had done.
  But thank you anyway.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Can’t you see your gold?
Can’t you see you’re gold?


The constellations still evade—
  I’ll climb the tree.
Keep ascending; no dismay
  (This I decree!)
I’ll catch a star, I swear, some way—
  On wings of chim-choo-rees.
But if I die before that day,
  Will you take one home for me?

. . . . .

There in that desert,
Hot as the stars,
I played my harp
And you the guitar

And with the smell
Of creosote
On the cool wind
You shed your coat.


Wending through the branches,
  Aloft in the sky,
Laughing and joking
  All through the night,
You found your love,
  To my great delight—
And when you pair embrace,
  I can’t help but sigh.

Let me bear that spear
  Thrown by your dad.
(“Don't worry or fear;
  The blood’s not so bad!”)
No!—could you have been saved
  Had I been there in time?—
For I’d rather brave
  That dagger in your spine!


Jonathan, my dearest friend,
  Won’t you lift your eyes?
Though you bleed and from there grieve,
  The seed of God’s inside.

I see your fear, though not so clear,
  For you take care to guard.
But you will neither raze nor pierce
  Your son where you’ve been scarred.

You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You can’t imagine how you’ve grown.
  But you have. You have.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Will you see your gold?
Will you see you’re gold?

. . . . .

The grass may wilt and flowers fade,
  But He steadfast remains.
And though carved ice resigns to melt,
  It runs into the lake.

For what are we but jars of dust?—
  Made that we may bear
The image of Him who painted us,
  Who deigns to hear our prayer.

We do not know where we will go.
We do not know where we will go.
We can’t begin to fathom where we’ll go.
  But—know it’s not in vain.

. . . . .

When moths at last consume my clothes,
  Will you remember?
Where stone-faced, dusty night arose,
  Will you remember?
When light endures its final throes,
  Will you remember?
Should I be lost within this grove,
  Will you remember?

When street-doors shut and grinding slows,
  We will remember.
Though hunters maim and shades enclose,
  We will remember.
All praise to God—the veil’s deposed;
  We can remember.
Because from death the Son arose,
  We can remember
  He will remember.

When, from my grave, the cypress grows,
  You will remember.
And when you sleep 'neath mountain snow,
  I will remember.
The epilogue eternal goes—
  “We shall remember!”
Forevermore we shall compose,
  cleansed by the ember.


      Oh, Jonathan—
      May your heart enfold
            (And should I be told?):
      Do you see your gold?
      Do you see—you’re gold?
Á Liam,
mon ami—
mon frère.
.
“A friend loves at all times,
and a brother is born for adversity.”
Proverbs 17:17
There’s a concert in my back yard
solos and duets all day
a circus with acrobatics
clowns painted with reds, blues and browns
just feet from my perch
here as I peck on the  keys
the stars fly in
then flit away with ease
as if to tell me:
you can’t hold me long
with your seeds and your eyes
we are free to dive the skies.
With gratitude to John Wiley and his poem, “Kookaburra” - https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4547160/kookaburra/  - the inspiration for this poem.
Garden roses
my heart is a bunch of thorns,

Sweet white Lillie
my love is of ornamental peace,

Oh my Aster
the brightest star in the dark,

My sweetest Daisy
so affectionate sweetness of your hope,

These tulips are such
a touch of my purple violence,

For blue Iris
is stuck inside of my shadowy eye,

In this paradise,
please my dearest children, keep away
all of those weeds.
~
She cannot feel the full passion of this peak because it is not her passion: It is seen at a distance, as a phenomenon, like the weather, or the plague of grasshoppers that signals the beginning of the end.
~
My mind ebbs and flows
Torn between the sun and moon
I long for eclipse
Some of us fall in love too easy
loose moral blossom
flaunting for all comers
throbbingly defying
pigeon-holes
to let life thrum
Dahlia May 5
there's something about you
that buries itself in my chest
growing its roots somewhere deep inside
blooming and blossoming
reaching and tangling around my veins
wrapping its vines around my bones
spreading its pollen through my bloodstream with every gentle heartbeat
seeping through my fingers and toes
crawling up my spine and flowering in my thoughts
I carry you everywhere
and as I fall asleep at night,
I think about the way it feels
to have you next to me
I've been friends with you for what feels like forever. I wish I could tell you how I really feel, but I'm scared I'm going to ruin what we have.
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