"overtones" poems
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.
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ACROSS the flat and the pastel snow
Two people go . . . . 'And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?' . . . 'Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December.'
'Dead, the leaves that like asses's ears hung on the trees
When last we wandered and squandered joy here;
Now Midas your husband will listen for these
Whispers--these tears for joy's bier.'
And as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
And all the ropes let down from the cloud
Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees--codas
Of overtones, ecstasies, grown for love's shroud
6k
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying
Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour
Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
in careless conversation
to wonder over
missed whispers....
But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
your eyes again
solvent for my presence of mind
dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
To deny ...To deny
To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know! Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...
I melt... I'm gone....
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Artificial means and memes the fingers perusing naturally formed hide and go seek
Chic creatures wrought from nanoparticles based on modeled consciousness neural networks
A handsome hivemind of bee;s building trees from cds ...intersynth polygons attracted
to stack platonic forms emanation waves alpha beta delta gamma omega 1 , 2 ,3
this multiversal layering from micro to macro of matter animated by its intoned
hertz pulsations and the interferrence pattern of the changing relationship due to the amount, frequency, force, temperature , texture , text messages, timing , geometry , subharmonics and overtones, a jewel net . syncronistic synergetic, synaptical sparkles.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
Within the Eternal Sea of Light
Stands the Tree of Life
Of seven branches, seven roots
Each a mated pair
Crowned in white Light
My Spirit rests
Along the shore.
Where the flowers sing their songs
Listening to a Symphony I have not heard before.
Tazim, Tsum
All flowers sing their songs.
Oscillating
Undertones and overtones
A rainbow of petals in "Om"
Sounding Multitudes of Love.
Elohim, Jah-Jah!
Yahweh Hashem!
Creator
Father Mother
The First Trinity
Now, in Unity Stands.
I give you my raging canyons
Wind torn spirit, haggard body
Broken heart & soul.
Stepping into courage
Hand in hand.
Lengthening inhalation
Slowing it's release
Breath of Life!
Moving into the expansive
Show me the Light.
Sweet mercy!
I am weightless
In the green fields and rolling valleys
Tumbling among the rocks into still waters
Ashes of past pain
Afloat in silence.
All is white
within Light's embrace
Traveling 90 degrees to the right
Flow into the Sacred Heart.
Within the Holy of Holies
Is a rainbow
Where thousands upon thousands of colors
Each root within the seven
Stands the Tree of Life
Of Seven branches, seven roots
Each a mated pair
Along the shore
Where the flowers sing their songs
Listening to a symphony I have not heard before.
Within the Eternal Sea of Light
Crowned in white Light
My Spirit rests
In Harmony's rhythm
In Unity Divine.
I am
In Unity Divine.
Enfolded in Harmony's rhythm
My Spirit rests
Crowned in white Light.
Within the Eternal Sea of Light
Listening to a Symphony I have not heard before.
Where the flowers singing their songs
Along the shore.
Each a mated pair.
Of seven branches, seven roots
Stands the Tree of Life
Where thousands upon thousands of colors
Is a rainbow
Within the Holy of Holies.
Flow into the Sacred Heart
Traveling 90 degrees to the right
within Light's embrace
All is White.
Afloat in silence.
Ashes of past pain
Tumbling among the rocks into still waters.
In the green fields and rolling valleys
I am weightless.
Sweet mercy!
Show me the Light.
Moving into the expansive
Breath of Life!
Slowing it's release
Lengthening inhalation
Hand in hand.
Stepping into courage
Broken heart & soul.
Wind torn spirit, haggard body
I give to you my raging canyons
Now, in Unity Stands
The First Trinity
Father Mother
Creator!
Yahweh Hashem!
Elohim, Jah-Jah!
Sounding Multitudes of Love.
A rainbow of petals in "Om"
Undertones and overtones
Oscillating
All flowers sing their songs.
Tazim, Tsum
Listening to a Symphony I have not heard before.
Where the flowers singing their songs
Along the shore.
My Spirit rests
Crowned in white Light.
Each mated pair.
Seven branches, seven roots
Stands the Tree of Life
Within the Eternal Sea of Light
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 8:42 PM UTC
Virgo in the ascendant,
Saturn in decline,
A retrograding antidote,
A calculated rhyme;
Overtones of melancholy,
Undertones of mirth,
A surfeit of misfortune,
Of musery a dearth
Faithless Fortune taps her foot,
While plotting my demise,
A rhythm most unruly,
A metaphor unwise;
In minutes and in seconds,
She wreaks havoc on my pen,
A glib faux pas, no coup de grâce...
And so I start again.
§
_My zodiacal tendencies,
Triumphant in their prime,
Fade to skepticism
As life spins on a dime._
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 2:22 PM UTC
Bless me this Mentor of Sole Beauty's Heir
Yet Strong but Soothing Overtones bespoke
Your Man won your Lot; Such Blue Maiden Fair
Whose learned Feathers brushed my mind pre-note
Which perchance teach me this Indigestion
Of Quarter-Terms whose gods we must rely
Your Patience, prized, covet my Attention
Which by tri-week's end I will soon come by
And hope within months my Master become
Whilst you dear Lady try to taste our Flag
I realize, this Truth: Work most embalm
Then my Skills effect to Experience had.
Before I forget, I'll thank in advance
This Dumb Poet's Song in foolish romance.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
JANE, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again;
Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair,
Jane, Jane, come down the stair.
Each dull blunt wooden stalactite
Of rain creaks, hardened by the light,
Sounding like an overtone
From some lonely world unknown.
But the creaking empty light
Will never harden into sight,
Will never penetrate your brain
With overtones like the blunt rain.
The light would show (if it could harden)
Eternities of kitchen garden,
Cockscomb flowers that none will pluck,
And wooden flowers that 'gin to cluck.
In the kitchen you must light
Flames as staring, red and white,
As carrots or as turnips shining
Where the cold dawn light lies whining.
Cockscomb hair on the cold wind
Hangs limp, turns the milk's weak mind . . .
Jane, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again!
2.4k
I would much rather think of my style of writing as "Philosomancy" than as "Poetry",
I would much rather think of my Music as "Phonomancy" than as "Music".
I think of myself as a Philosomancer rather than a Writer; perhaps a Writist.
Language is simply a mutual Medium for concepts; a means.
I think of myself as a Phonomancer rather than a Musician; perhaps a Musist.
Music is the name we call ordered sound; a means.
There is deeper Mythic significance to these things
than the mere words "Write" and "Music" lead on;
The Suffix of "-mancy" indicates a style of Divination;
a sort-of improvised Oracle.
Take, for instance,
Geomancy: Divination of Earth
Pyromancy: Divination of/by Fire
Astromancy: Divination by the Stars
Aquamancy: Divination of/by Water
By this pattern, it logically follows that:
Philosomancy: Divination of/through Ideas
Phonomancy: Divination of/by Sounds
-
Mythic Overtones are ubiquitous and implicit,
yet perception of them is more rare
due to cultural dissonance
'twixt Mythic and Logic.
Plus, Philosomancy and Phonomancy
sound so much more badass
than mere Writing and Music,
if I am to openly opine!
(It really helps to have a sense of Humour, as well!)
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
Each day is drowned in frigid waters.
Never able to dock against real land.
Little bubbles ripple to the surface of the ill-fated.
Riptides of hate and disgust slam the high towers of this mighty hull.
The icy cluster plunges into the depth of our core.
Defiantly this mighty bow of ours shrieks from its deathly hollows.
As if some ghostly being is wailing it's final departure to the sea.
Monotonous overtones creak inside this inlet;
as life and death flood to it's harmony.
Brimming with animosity and subjugation.
The majestic's heart yearns for land one last time.
Our innards displayed,
as our two halves fatally sink to their final depths.
Never reaching our idol port.
Never finding what was Solely ours to find.
A sinking Ship.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy the enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying
Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour
*Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
in careless conversation
to wonder over
missed whispers....
But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
your eyes again
solvent for my presence of mind
dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
To deny ...To deny
To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know! Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...
I melt... I'm gone....*
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
Evening in her slippered feet
Approaches from the heat of day
Shadows in the molten light
Lengthen as they have their way
Silence in the hovered moment
Stillness in the mote of time,
The glow within a sunbeam's ray
Ensnares the warmth of joy as mine.
Drifting insects float on bye
Suspended in the evening light
Against the lace of silver birch
With gnarled trunk of speckled white.
In the dark blue, far azure
A gosshawk glides on high, aloft
A predator surveying late
For living things in farmer's croft.
A waterfall of children's laughter
Cascades through a field of green,
Overtones of golden shadow
Fills the air with love unseen.
Earthworms in their darkened tombs
Are wriggling for the coming night,
Rabbits stretch and move to grazing
Anxious for the closing light.
The chill night air descends as dew
The picnickers depart the scene,
Starlings flock to perch and roost
Whilst velvet silence hangs serene
Vaulting high above the foothills
Crowned with purple alpenglow
Taranaki's snowclad grandeur
Last to see the day light go.
Contemplation be my friend
For deep within contentment's breast
The joy of living sings it's song
And sooths my happy soul to rest.
Marshalg
Taranaki Evensong
23 October 2010
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 1:10 AM UTC
The Moon and the Stars
It all started one night under the stars.
Lying in the field on the clearest yet brisk last nights of summer's warm-held grasp. Telescope, blankets, friends and stars. We watched and waited as satellites and planes flew overhead; deciphering shooting star from orbital waste, relearning and recalling constellations recognized throughout man's lifelong past. Gazing into the wide open of the unknown with thoughts of extra-terrestrial, black holes, and the possibility of life after death.
The darker the night the more magic seemed to exist. After wrapping up our outdoor viewing of the universe, we headed indoors for peaceful sessions of passing the pipe while listening to shamanic throat singing and overtones, as our friends sat gravely entranced, zoning out to the wonders of the world covered by media through National Geographic and the world-wide-web.
It was somewhere a midst all this where I find myself; body calm and mind relaxed, propped up on the couch pondering the innermost immortal thoughts of the interconnectedness of life and death and sound and energy, spirit and soul as visions of spirals infinitely intertwining as one appear before my eyes. The sensations of what I imagine the reference of “getting the gears rolling” in the center of my brain as my pineal gland begins its first steps of decalcification brought about by the intentions of man.
Up until this point my life was on a one track path. A steady straight line towards the unknown, unawakened, and ignorantly naive, believing everything I had been taught up until that moment was a true solid fact. With this new sensation of the potential for higher vibrations within my own soul, my heart began to rapidly race but without pain and suffering, rather with the excitement of this new realized grace.
Awakening to this new idea, to this new age, to this new way of life.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
i loath that educational poetry that's intended to address you with scold or searching for a higher tier of morality, there are poems like that out there (rudyard kipling e.g.), with educational / instructional overtones in the way they're written, i always wonder though: did the poet remember the idea of solipsism and writing the poem as if to himself, a note to self, rather than for others to peer into the poem and learn something?
that's the thing though,
i'm a child of immigrants...
actually an immigrant
myself... no, wait, let's do
what the higher tiers of society
call it: i'm an expatriate,
a child of expatriates -
and they still talk with an accent,
me? self-taught english
from the age of 8, retained my
mother tongue nonetheless,
speak none of the two tongues with
an accent, unless i want to,
a friend of mine introduced me
to a greek cypriot, lovingly ridiculed
me as posh... and let me tell you,
sounding posh in essex is hard to do,
i admit it would be harder in
scotland or east london, but essex
is still a hefty mountain to climb -
it's like that crass joke i heard in
the edinburgh comedy club i used to
haunt once a week...
a guy stands up and with a mighty grin
announced himself with over-stressed
elocution: 'you might recognise my accent
(i.e. denoting where he came from,
a great conversation starter on these
islands)... it's educated',
and that really crushed the hazelnut
in his **** -
well if it was a woman telling the same
joke, it would be a crushed hazelnut
between the legs - missionaries
in positions of ardent prayer
and christmas wrapping paper -
because a woman's strength in the leg department
is like the lips of oysters, or any over shellfish
for that matter - insects of the deep blue
(exoskeleton).
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
Rolling skin shifts from side to side
This beating hit mashes
The backs of my knees so they are kissing spirits
The low beds here make you feel like a salmon
Caught in some fisherman’s net
Its obstructs your vision of the world
All you can classify from the passers by
Is the smell of their voyage
And the sand falling from their scalp muscles
The heat confuses your senses
Your insurrection causes you to plead for a truce
A plea not to be hearing German overtones in your own head
Where am I now in this weary plane crash?
Even the monsters make noises of bliss
The streets are filled with Technicolor tropics
2 joints for 8 dollars from homeless Anthony
A land of unbearable strangeness
Reality left us when the water fell
Completing an oasis of vibrancy and nutrition
The earth cracks beneath the roaming
Of infinite stray dogs and feral humans
Everything here has a tale
But you may not know it until it is wrapped around your inner thigh
A sixth sense of blasphemy
Forms a pit of fear in your stomach for whatever you left behind
Such creatures never meant to be seen caged between your very eyes
They grasp as if you were some ancient tree
Equally deserving of their devotion
I am just an eroded soldier
And this armor is really starting to eat away at the cause
One can not find zen in this confusion
But we will all float down that path eventually
Zen can wait for I would rather wade with the sinners in the pool of exoneration
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
Inside a garden
Of misleading wonders,
A rose so wondrous
With thorns are obvious.
It's painful and slow
But carry overtones to grow
Its petals bleed
But worthy to be someone's lead
Thorns protect flowers--
Just like teachers
Who protect us to fully bloom
And pass through tall wall looms.
Jan 14, 2022
Jan 14, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
I am alone. I am.
The sounds are not naked
Scratchings from outside;
No soft paws scurry in the attic;
The floors beyond are tiled;
The stairs carpeted;
The hinges like cloth;
The curtains drawn against shade;
The phone doesn't ring to vacant voices;
Half-burnt candles would burn
In the whosh of a hallway.
And yet,
I hear you breathe,
Hear the rustle of sleeves;
A light slivering beneath the door.
And I am
Alone.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
jackson browne's Late for the Sky is an uncanny song
illuminating the moment right before you split
with someone you love
the latenight time when despite all the swerving
you see the end of the road
the grieving and inevitability
built right into the overtones
i liked it before i had a girlfriend
and when i had one and we built a world together
and broke up
i listened to it and shook my head in recognition
and thought what a good song
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
They are watching my every move in the night
Quietly looking at me like a rabid raven.
If you could see deep inside my head
It would look like a movie made by Wes Craven.
My methodical homicidal ideas running fast and running ramped
Trying ever so hard not to get caught
I have no choice but to top the last at what I just did.
My mind is pounding hard and my heart is racing
As I am dripping with sweat back and forth I am pacing.
Studying about all the others hoping now not to get caught
When they had finished what they had done, I often think,
What was it that they had did they did thought.
Keeping secrets buried locked deep inside
When they questioned me with their questions, I lied.
I am the king of given many a death wish
Pushing you in with handcuffs behind your back
Now you’re sinking to the bottom forever chilling with the fish.
Verbally murdering you with these lines,
When I’m in my death bed, I’ll confess, all my death crimes.
Till then question me all you what I don’t care,
No how many times.
(SirCARSr 10-10-13)
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
I tune you as piano keys.
I listen intently to their blare through billions of seconds
to make sure they have sound of suitable height
with thirteen-digit accuracy.
I found the arbitrary parameter,
in shimmering sun in your eyes,
in consonants in your name,
in literature you are reading
in your footsteps in sand,
in joint travels,
in energy of your heart,
in motion of your thighs,
in your grace and beauty,
in the tone of your voice.
I am not able to say a word of admiration
for the sound of your body and soul.
Piano closed in such small creature.
Only I can play on you.
Instinctively, we escape from reality in music.
I try to focus on vision of notes
when I am distracted by your radiant face.
You sensed I play first time.
Light in your eyes gives me confidence.
Love is the music of your existance.
Life is secret of black and white keys.
I like when you are mostly undressed
wearing only underwear
without feeling any shame,
with your mind filled only with sounds
and touch of my hands.
The notes fell in torrnents.
Where am I?
I try to put excited pieces together .
Burning sensation in my skin gives new symphony,
overtones as powerful as waves of ocean.
Let it happen.
The blood needs to flow with music.
I barely breath.
I never felt like that.
Each movement felt like pure ecstasy.
The water of our sensation grows hotter again.
I am all fired up.
Play with me, my love.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
I'm in love with my imaginary friend.
Every night we go for walks
through the pines and twisted oak
and roll along the forest floor
sending ancient leaves to float.
Once, we laid on our backs,
head to head towards space
and synthesized soft new lights
which colored up the scene.
We made dragons dance
throughout the clouds,
eating fish in a serpent's kiss.
Pink and green pulsing slow
as raptured waves and overtones.
Behind that checkered skyline,
through a portal in the clouds
came to mind a severed vision
of her flaming hair and crown.
She has curled around my feet,
hearing the stories that I've told.
And I've watched her streak
across the sky, a shooting star,
a cosmic jewel to behold.
She's celestially empowered,
adorned with patient equipoise,
with Jupiter and Venus
meeting conjunct in her voice.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
Honey liquor. the sweetest taste on my lips,
to fall down to the inner sanctum, and rest,
beneath my chest in a silent humming desire.
I feel your breath across my teeth, as it takes in my edges,
the curved outline of my body, plays with the candlelight,
that was so sweetly lit for this moment.
In a flash, like a 1950's photography picture,
the want, turns to rage, to abandonment of what lays before you,
I lay before you.
You breathe me in.
You take me in.
You leave my skin with goosepimples, and i am not cold.
I want to roar, but i am lost with out my mouth,
as you hold it in fearful gaze that I might just breathe,
you, in.
You following my veins from my neck to my wrists,
you count the beats of my blood, with your ears,
pinned back, with your teeth white and sharp,
feared by the candlelight, they do not move, like my body.
I writhe and sink below you,
your hand is on my wrist, and my arm is locked behind me,
I am pinned,
I am put upon,
and yet, i have nowhere to go, but my mind is running from you.
I wait for you to take me,
an indeterminate amount of time passes as i look at you,
with your eyes closed,
taking your time, with your lips pursed and your chin turned,
just so.
And i feel the liquor burn within my chest,
it drips down each breast and across my navel,
as you nip the scant flesh of my inner thighs.
It is quick, it is swift,
the breath i held is exhaled through an open mouth,
a silent howl in a wood-less room,
and a den has been made.
I am not here anymore,
I am within you, as you are within me.
I am breathe, as you are the air.
There is suffocation as i come too quickly and i can't control my mouth;
It utters words in religious overtones;
'Let this be my Sanctum, OH, MY GOD'.
I am fixated by the sight of you,
my body breaks into a millions pieces and dances through the languid,
heaving sweat of the dormant room;
I watch my fingertips pass me by,
I can no longer see your face,
You have braced me for the final ***********
The Ultimate Fix.
And my legs crumple as quickly as your body does.
You are silent in your respite in having me,
there is no tangible evidence of love having taken place.
And sweet honey liquor burns at the back of my throat,
as i exhale and howl to the room, the air, the woods;
for in the space between the light there lies within some air.
To love a wolf, one must have to fight,
to love a wolf, one must have to forsake all,
and be reborn anew and to cry.
For to love you, you have to take me.
And i will drink the sweet liquor,
and retreat to the sanctum within, with a smile on my face,
a burning in my chest, and a tear in my eye.
For to love a wolf, one must be willing to die.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
In Seville
My lock is like a wheel
that treasures the land
with strands of sand now an inroad to soul
in times of grain this platitude of health ahead of tides
the salt on shore implores unfinished deeds
as art deplores any nurturing of needs
with stars out this race beyond the chariot again
and proves that this orient has rightly won a gathering if seed roaring in a stream of catchment nigh
where these overtones are songs
and round about the fields along the Guadalquivir.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC