Under gray sky
Caught in the pace of the wind
Admiring the patience of ivy
Such steadfast love of walls

I wait for the rain
As if it had already planted rivers
Upon the backs of my hands

With it I wait for your return
For your eyes that pitch and shine
Like the Mediterranean

My love a singly white sail
On the horizon
That will never reach
The port of your heart

If I could
I would build you
A statue over looking those waters
Of alabaster, ivory
Of obsidian, amethyst, and pearl

But all I can give you
Is the tremble kiss of the wind
The promise of rainfall
And the last corners of my stubborn love
Which you have not already gathered
In the lightning of your smile

~Poem?*

I will cease to exist
One of these days,
Once and for all.

Maybe next week
I'll cease to exist
For you.

Haven't I said already
I'll be ready to go?
This Saturday
Late
In the late afternoon.

After all,
My rendez-vous
Is at five,
Under
The ticking clock
On the corner.

Cease fire
For now,
I give up.

I gave up
One night
Under the stars,
Under the moon.

An eye for an eye
And most
Of my sweet teeth,
I packed
Into my
Overnight suitcase.

How did you know
I'd fall
For long, long
White hair,
Long overdue.

I found the last seat
Last night
Of the last season.
The last
Theatre performance.

Good chance
I'll miss
My five o'clock
Rendez-vous.

Pretty good reason
To leave, to go,
Never to turn.

Wait for me
A minute or two,
I will return
Right away

My beloved,
My old
And wrinkled,
Wise man
Of the sea.

The soul rises
inspired
by paintings
colours
shapes and tones
harmoniously juxtaposed.

A bird soars
towards the sky
floats
then swoops.

The melody
flows, swells
surges then fades.

An intermezzo
with solo clarinet
or perhaps a piccolo.

Linked words
in a poem
flow like piano notes
rhythmically, melodically.

*******
keyboard
hamburger
blue
coffeehouse
smile

the
joy
citizenship
face
she's

Slapped
brightly

a
cold
lot
on
sweat
singing
Dance
merry
stuff
a
canned
about

mayor
of
Cool
macdonald
croudsource

major
was

work
loud
birthday
red
call
measure
workingclass
monogamy
silence
a
his
carnivores

down
street
manly

ordnance
every

happy
steaming
beginning
rattle
place
ukraine
sniff
serial
place
We
testing
laugh
bro
my
worker
of
crap
juice
water
canon
man
shuffling

the
bread
Shaking
fried
peanut
Johnny's
cleaninglady
based
upbringing
hums
flanberg
flames

the
brainface
got
of
before

awkward
flight
foresaw
on
black
She
travels
meaningful

fell
hamster
fighter
lack
correlate
was
day
colony

what
man
She
train
fortify

Guitar
piano

orange
intermezzo
butter
squints
cackling
happy
mate

hot

breadsource
browsers

I walk along the paths of cobble amongst the dim street light,
An elegant choreography of colours fills the amber sky as my mind drifts away.
In the distance, the symphony of the wind plays.
I hear its allegro, its presto -- it is a masterpiece for the senses.

I stroll for what seems like an eternity, thinking about that elusive feeling
Of a white hand caressing my shoulder --
I stop.

The gates open in front of me.

A golden glow dispels my foggy breath as the sky fills with cinders and dust.
The light calls my name as I stand there petrified;
What was golden turns dark orange.
My eyes refocus. I wake up.

I feel soft embrace of the rain.
The effervescent smell of petrichor fills my nostrils as darkness consumes my thoughts.
The penultimate burden is the least cumbersome, for the most daunting one trails the contour of my head;
A white hand emerging behind me.

it's familiar trickery
in a master's hands -
the ever falling melody
occasionally lifted
just enough
to let the sunlight
shine through

Quel temps de chien ! - il pleut, il neige ;
Les cochers, transis sur leur siège,
Ont le nez bleu.
Par ce vilain soir de décembre,
Qu'il ferait bon garder la chambre,
Devant son feu !

A l'angle de la cheminée
La chauffeuse capitonnée
Vous tend les bras
Et semble avec une caresse
Vous dire comme une maîtresse,
" Tu resteras ! "

Un papier rose à découpures,
Comme un sein blanc sous des guipures.
Voile à demi
Le globe laiteux de la lampe
Dont le reflet au plafond rampe,
Tout endormi.

On n'entend rien dans le silence
Que le pendule qui balance
Son disque d'or,
Et que le vent qui pleure et rôde,
Parcourant, pour entrer en fraude,
Le corridor.

C'est bal à l'ambassade anglaise ;
Mon habit noir est sur la chaise,
Les bras ballants ;
Mon gilet bâille et ma chemise
Semble dresser, pour être mise,
Ses poignets blancs.

Les brodequins à pointe étroite
Montrent leur vernis qui miroite,
Au feu placés ;
A côté des minces cravates
S'allongent comme des mains plates
Les gants glacés.

Il faut sortir ! - quelle corvée !
Prendre la file à l'arrivée  
Et suivre au pas
Les coupés des beautés altières
Portant blasons sur leurs portières
Et leurs appas.

Rester debout contre une porte
A voir se ruer la cohorte
Des invités ;
Les vieux museaux, les frais visages,
Les fracs en coeur et les corsages
Décolletés ;

Les dos où fleurit la pustule,
Couvrant leur peau rouge d'un tulle
Aérien ;
Les dandys et les diplomates,
Sur leurs faces à teintes mates,
Ne montrant rien.

Et ne pouvoir franchir la haie
Des douairières aux yeux d'orfraie
Ou de vautour,
Pour aller dire à son oreille
Petite, nacrée et vermeille,
Un mot d'amour !

Je n'irai pas ! - et ferai mettre
Dans son bouquet un bout de lettre
A l'Opéra.
Par les violettes de Parme,
La mauvaise humeur se désarme :
Elle viendra !

J'ai là l'Intermezzo de Heine,
Le Thomas Grain-d'Orge de Taine,
Les deux Goncourt ;
Le temps, jusqu'à l'heure où s'achève
Sur l'oreiller l'idée en rêve,
Me sera court.

Feeling like romeo just after
drinking that ineffective love potion.
Instead of freezing myself in time,
i will love for an eternity
taking on new forms when we need.

That must make you my honey-covered blackberry, Juliet
craving more always, but understanding
why there is just never enough.

This morning rain is dark, clear, lush, and boisterous;
nothing like the scent you left me with,
which brings me back to our observatory,
watching atoms collide in chaotic harmony;
yes that was then, but oh how this is now!

Look out for fox this morning,
as he is sure to marry this certain dream,
if light rays peak through
varnishing reflective wash,
and reveal the rainbows streaking from our souls.

Song birds will sing as oxygen flows,
To where it was observed,
from nobody knows.

___
Intermezzo


Today the mourning doves cry out all afternoon
just as the willows weep, and swoon,
and sun masked brilliantly by clouds
that surround

shining brightly on everything,
but not directly on down
so the flowers in trees, in hope of new glee
look around and beg the Sun, “shine on me will you please?”

but the rain is still falling
gently like your tingling kisses
and the fox hasn’t stopped chasing
perhaps to find his rainbow mistress

Are you now denied all access
Has your ticket long been punched
Is your fear stuck in the alley
Intermezzo—out to lunch

Will you even see the picture
From the far end of the line
Would a curtain serve to raise your hopes
Can a loser ever shine

The doorman calls “It’s Showtime”
As the lights all start to dim
An usher cries “There’s One Seat Left”
You madly rush within

With eyes now strained in darkness
You find that one last chair
And on the stage, hope kisses fear,
—all encores yours to share

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

I walked along the paths of cobble amongst the dim street light,
An elegant choreography of colours filled the air of the amber sky as my mind drifted away.
The symphony of the wind plays their allegro, their presto.
A masterpiece for your senses.

I was strolling for what seemed like an eternity, thinking about that elusive feeling
Of a white man's hand caressing my shoulder.
I stop.

The gates open in front of me
A golden glow conceals my shallow breathing as the sky fills with cinders and dust.
It is calling my name as I stand there petrified.
What was golden turns dark orange.
My eyes refocus. I wake up.

The soft embrace of the rain, the effervescent smell of petrichor fills my nostrils as darkness consumes my thoughts.
The penultimate burden is the least cumbersome for the most daunting one trails the contour of my head.
A white man's hand emerging behind me.

A form of self-punishment:

not eating. Allowing myself to rot.

I need to rot every once in a while, af en toe. To remind myself of ...

..... [intermezzo] .....

yerba mate, the bladden likens itself as my mouth, spreading across my tongue as a wave and, with a morbid branching, increases towards my throat and deepest parts of my kidneys: safety [you sit there, in the deepest part of my kidneys, I keep you there, my husband, for safekeeping]

.... [ lude ... enter ... ] ....

something. I'm playing dead!

That's it : the cold, the outside, the exposure, the no where, the tears, the pangs, it's playing dead.  I play dead. Here and there, now and then, af en toe, every few months, I play dead. Then I run back to my life, to my daddy, my husband, my love, where I am alive.

I have foreseen my Oracle,
In which The Lover displays,
Such a boisterous spear,

And The Priestess rests
On her altar,
To attract new lightings;

Water & air are,
Such a hand,
That grabs a chalice,
To put it
On the right Ark,

And my flesh is,
Like a dancer who
Summons the intermezzo,
Between Dark & Light;

No more nails are spread,
Across the land,
For The Hunter still waits,
To cut off his prey's head;

No more words are lost,
In the twilight,
For the rain does not cry,
To see how plants die;

The Sky is about to pronounce,
His last syllables,
To let us all know,
How a true Balance works.