But we trod grapes and paddled on,
Through a neap tide of Sauvignon,
Drowning our disappointment in drink,
Above a pale octopus poached in its own ink.

Castaway and stowaway using another name,
Fantasies swapped on the website that we blame,
Until in the blood-black sea we agree to give it a try,
And I wash up in the morning beneath my mother's palid thigh.

It was the rain to which I'd been waiting;
A palid clamor in the dark
An incessant pitter-pattering
Patterning of life's blood
Awash in the swirling gusts of a storm
Booming with menacing roar
To announce its presence
The purpose of which is to restore
Natures balance
Not unlike the cacophony which breeds
A humble tune,
Tuned to the key terror and awe
As it inspires new life to grow
In place of the old kaleidoscope
That has, to this date,
Shielded my eyes
From the renaissance
Of a world
Trapped in drought

"Un hombre gris avanza por la calle de niebla,
no lo sospecha nadie. Es un cuerpo vacío;
vacío como pampa, como mar, como viento,
desiertos tan amargos bajo un cielo implacable.

Es el tiempo pasado, y sus alas ahora
entre la sombra encuentran una pálida fuerza;
es el remordimiento, que de noche, dudando;
en secreto se aproxima su sombra descuidada.

No estrechéis esa mano. La yedra altivamente
ascenderá cubriendo los troncos de invierno.
Invisible en la calma el hombre gris camina.
¿No sentís a los muertos? Mas la tierra esta sorda."

La tierra está sorda y no oye,
no oye a los muertos llamando por ella;
por ella que les ha dado tanto,
que les ha acogido cuando les exilió la vida.

La vida desentendida camina por los campos de trigo
cuando le cae la noche, le cae la niebla
y su camino se cruza con el andante implacable,
el andante que es sombra, el andante vacío.

Con la mirada aún feliz estrecha su mano,
y la yedra altiva asciende cubriendo los troncos del invierno.
Sus manos estrechadas los cuerpos se vacían.
¿No sentís a los muertos? Mas la tierra está sorda

//

"A grey man passes through the streer of fog,
nobody suspects of him. He is an empty body;
empty like pampas, like sea, like wind,
deserts so bitter under an unstoppable sky.

He is the past time, and his winds now
in the shadow find a palid strength;
he is remorse, whom at night, doubting;
in secret aproaches his neglected shadow.

Don't shake that hand. The climbing plant proudly
will ascend covering the trunks of winter.
Invisible in calm the gray man walks.
Don't you feel the dead? But the earth is deaf."

The earth is deaf and she can't hear,
she can't hear the dead calling for her;
for her who has given them so much,
who has welcomed them when life exiled them.

Life without noticing walks on the wheat fields
when night falls on her, fog falls on her,
and her path crosses with the unstoppable walker,
the walker who is shadow, the empty walker.

With her view still happy she shakes his hand,
and the climbing plant proudly ascends covering the trunks of winter.
Their hands shaken the bodies empty.
¿Don't you feel the dead? But the earth is deaf.

How long would it take for people to hear
My gallows soundtrack?
The rhythmic thud of my leg
Hitting the desk every 3 seconds
The friction of the rope on the unstable hook
That could give out any minute
Under the weight of my palid corpse
They'll probably only hear it
When the hook comes loose from the plaster
And my body thumps on the floor
They only ever hear the fortissimo
Never the piano

THE POND

The sky is a mirror of dizzy hew,
the pond stunned into wakefulness
as the lips of dawn caress the glassy surface
and sun sparks glitter on the water –
an evasive universe of light
eflecting the instant of now.

The silhouetted heron,
sharp, spare and simple,
marks the pond’s hazy edge
and silver fish, tiny sparks
of energy, burst with mild
explosion on the water.

Gray mist lifts, leaving
liquid beautiful and still,
air rarefied as if expecting
a sacred presence.

Day brings the light of time
and earthly energy--
texture, color and shape.
A yellow-billed blackbird
whistles sweet disturbances
across the water.

With evening’s dying light
the sun is in rosy flight
soon to be replaced by
the palid moon’s reflection--
the haunting face of one
we passed along the way.

The writhing rememberances
Bitter Weeping repentances
Tense futile wait for acceptances
Palid light's reflections
Twangling trembling infections
Dot dashing tricks of frictions
Pitch dark woods of addictions
Echoing barks and their inspections
Shuttles striking with aggressions
Groaning desolate night's successions