"tenderest" poems
Lift it to your lips
& let what falls adrift in the form of ash
dissolve in the wind
as dried bone thrashing,
bashing against dust & grit.
Pull; take a long hit.
Dregs to be kept until last in the bottom
of your broken lungs,
taken as deep as breaths:
to rattle against your teeth.
"O", takes the lewd shape
of your chapped mouth as you break free
from your caged-in chest,
skeletons left sat, to wallow
as ashen bones & yellow teeth.
Hold your knuckled joints
against tenderest flesh of your upper lip
& sniff, as if a try to void
all signs of violent backslides
to clandestine nicotine meetings.
Flick blanked eyes to lit but
dying embers ground between sole & soil,
& morosely swear never
another, not one more; after
this next one, this last one, never.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
When, as the garish day is done,
Heaven burns with the descended sun,
'Tis passing sweet to mark,
Amid that flush of crimson light,
The new moon's modest bow grow bright,
As earth and sky grow dark.
Few are the hearts too cold to feel
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal,
When first the wandering eye
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze,
That glimmering curve of tender rays
Just planted in the sky.
The sight of that young crescent brings
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things
The hopes of early years;
And childhood's purity and grace,
And joys that like a rainbow chase
The passing shower of tears.
The captive yields him to the dream
Of freedom, when that ****** beam
Comes out upon the air:
And painfully the sick man tries
To fix his dim and burning eyes
On the soft promise there.
Most welcome to the lover's sight,
Glitters that pure, emerging light;
For prattling poets say,
That sweetest is the lovers' walk,
And tenderest is their murmured talk,
Beneath its gentle ray.
And there do graver men behold
A type of errors, loved of old,
Forsaken and forgiven;
And thoughts and wishes not of earth,
Just opening in their early birth,
Like that new light in heaven.
4.3k
I
I greeted you, my inevitable day
In this shaky firmness of my hands;
Assuring me of my weakness; the languidity of my serene constitution.
The sky smeared with fright,undeed, and look, hark to how the sun closed the night!
This was but unpalatable dew, misty in its impatient greyness
Avidity for genuine sorrow and late confessions
The calm heart then wronged, and soon the war touched the light!
II
Beware of love, o silly hearts!
Loving thoughts, are indeed averse to relenting;
albeit they are always leading to smirks and destitution.
Release thy grains from yon grievous chain!
Spark thy wings, heave and bend!
Wear thy glee, ere any of the gruesome tears remain!
Shield thy mask with greater abhorrence!
III
O notions, fruit my doom and feed my sight!
From womanly misery I yet ought to emerge
and all its surly sleeves I ought to blight!
IV
O peace, fetch for me my untaught breath in vain
Keep me steady, ditch me not in the rain!
Tend me more, yet not my cheerful friend-
in pleasures whom thrives, in virtues was whom foolish!
Praising plaited hairs, swept amidst folded skirts.
Gruesome lies they carry, the finest they conspire to marry;
what a horrid, unalterable, evil concoction!
Yet pureness is the only that deserves awe;
virgins are a symbol of unrequited love, but tenderest affection!
However lonesome, hither and thither I shall bear this pain
Until my stern heart melted to love again.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:38 AM UTC
~
the true art of loving is
to never stop touching!
touching, holding,
caressing, stroking...
such is the nature of
love's connection;
a twine intertwined
through touch,
the stringing,
the *********
the fingers that clasp,
that reach out to grasp;
oh marvelous,
tenderest touch!
why is it that
any of us stop?
would we,
could we,
if we really knew?
that touch was a gift
one of the few
that gifts immortality,
gives liberality;
indeed,
would we
ever,
or
never
stop touching?
and God could only
know why
we would ever ask
to be left alone,
cold as a stone,
the untouchable we;
how could we deny
that one, that only
who for our heart longs
truest mate of our soul.
babies need it,
toddlers do it,
children want it,
teens use it,
young ones wish it,
lovers gift it,
mid-lifers pine and
seniors return to it...
there is never
a stage or
a cycle of life
where we should
or ever could
cease to be needing it
ever stop touching
or being touched.
for touch is
love's connection,
the umbilical chord,
a neuron cable,
the neutron bundle,
oh blanket of hope...
it feeds us,
a life line,
an air line
that needs us;
a love line to
the divine
that renews us,
and will
inevitably,
ultimately,
eventually,
totally
hold us,
as we walk
the path through,
eternity past,
present and
what is to come!
for touch...
indivisible from love,
and love never dies;
love never ceases!
yes,
the true art of touching is
to never stop loving!
~
*post script.
we watched so many who loved
stop touching through the years
and then wonder what happened
as embers once hot grew cold.
touch is a gift,
to be shared
and not hoarded!*
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o’er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
’Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow
Soft Reflection’s hand can trace,
And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
3.2k
779
The Service without Hope—
Is tenderest, I think—
Because ’tis unsustained
By stint—Rewarded Work—
Has impetus of Gain—
And impetus of Goal—
There is no Diligence like that
That knows not an Until—
2.8k
We cling to the paper skin of the earth
because it may throw us off tomorrow.
Watch closely, Observe:
The grasping hands find one another,
fitting together like pieces of an old puzzle.
The gleam of a tear in the dark,
the arms of a father encircling his child;
these are the last whispers of an endangered race.
The earth may throw us off tomorrow
and dance in the sunlight on the next day.
Expect no pity, no compassion;
Even the tenderest kisses sear the skin.
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
Inscribed to a Dear Child:
In Memory of Golden Summer Hours
And Whispers of a Summer Sea
Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
Eager she wields her ***** yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
The tale he loves to tell.
Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem if you list, such hours a waste of life,
Empty of all delight!
Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
The heart-love of a child!
2.8k
Inscribed to a Dear Child:
In Memory of Golden Summer Hours
And Whispers of a Summer Sea
Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
Eager she wields her ***** yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
The tale he loves to tell.
Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem if you list, such hours a waste of life,
Empty of all delight!
Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
The heart-love of a child!
2.7k
AY, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before."
She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that
the Empress had brought into fashion.
I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri -
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and
she couldn't abide that Dundreary."
Then I thought "Lucky boy!
'Tis for YOU that she whimpers!"
And I noted with joy
Those sensational simpers:
And I said "This is scrumptious!" - a
phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white,
and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!"
O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise -
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,
by a tempest of sighs.
Then I whispered "I see
The sweet secret thou keepest.
And the yearning for ME
That thou wistfully weepest!
And the question is 'License or Banns?',
though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest."
"Be my Hero," said I,
"And let ME be Leander!"
But I lost her reply -
Something ending with "gander" -
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no
mortal could quite understand her.
2.5k
When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part."
Many summers have gone by
Since a Second Rose and I
(Rose from the same stem) have told
This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day
Carried home my tenderest lay:
From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine;
Cold and torpid it must lie,
Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.
2.1k
My Poet:
*tho evening draws nigh,
on this our wedding day,
the stars, guardians of our canopy,
reminder twinkle it can never be
fully complete, for you always make
a moment in time for me,
today we wait, synchronizing seconds
until both pronounce,
I do
let my hands,
in my tenderest embracing grasp,
perforce, when I hold you face,
still cannot hold your entirety,
for you always make and leave a space
for me to seal our universe
today, you need me to fill you,
so together, ever forward,
we will define and explore
the edges of our redrawn,
now, single unified line,
our ever expanding contiguous boundary
our blood is not commingled
but when our bodies unified,
the physics of our conjoining,
illustrates that those in our
surround of time and space,
in the aura we create,
not so very great,
and yet our oneness
'tis a shining upon the countenance of our place,
a luminous emittance upon this earth
when you write your poetry,
it always finishes with me,
I am the native child of thy words,
I am the filament webbing
illuminating the spaces between each line
but more than this,
I am your beginning,
you are my destination,
together we make,
The End
they ask me to vow,
demand I swear, make promises,
certify, preserve, record and store
the solemnity of this marriage born,
in ledgers of the city,
before an invisible god
I eschew all this
for nothing in life
ever guaranteed by words secured,
but this I know true*
My Poet:
*what I shall give to you,
and you to us,
cannot be spoke,
the words, not yet,
have we originated
for each day
will we compose anew,
each day, shall be
a new combination
under new stars,
our canopy unfolded,
our joining sanctified,
by the simple truth of us*
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
This early morning time (you do not know
- however much I share its joys)
has been a space, a time aside for me:
to be beside your bed, your sleeping head, hard
into the pillow’s soft rest, deep
among dreams of swarming fish,
the basking shark, the limpet shell,
gannets (always gannets), and the otter.
Seeing its running prints, its tell-tale spraint,
the sleek brownness, sea-sluiced washing on rocks
meters away, you told me the wonder at it all,
your voice sparkling as the sun-glinting sea sparkles.
And I am free for once to share your time aside.
Sore and poor, the relentlessness of making
stops. I am chair-bound.
The radio, my books, your dear letters lie beside
the drugs and flowers on this small table where I write.
There is time to think beyond the next bar and the next.
There is time to contemplate the thrill and joy of you
though far away, yet brim-full of such sights that feed my soul.
Oh, the innocent joy of exclamation,
each rush of every description made.
The music of your observation,
so harmonious, so pure-toned,
As though the land, the sea, the sky,
wrapping around itself (and tied at your feet),
sings.
To share this time aside
is the sweetest kiss,
the tenderest touch,
the most loving, loving look.
Know that please.
Know what happiness
you’ve brought to me
and bring.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC
A selection of limericks
There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks
-----------------
Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet
-----------------
A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification
-----------------
A sculptor named Arnold Duprees
Carved a **** plug from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze
-----------------
Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould
-----------------
Oh ***** you make my knees quiver
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver
-----------------
A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
her ashen eyes hypnotize
the crisp summer wind catches me
i am not stirred from my place at her side
deep in thought she twirls a braid of her hair
and i watch her warm emotions
flowin easy like daylight on her
lovely features
the day romances its reasons
but finally bows to evening tides and begins to retire
with the flourish of a well mannered man of leasuire
the day walks with the sundown by the seaside town
hand in hand and window shop
the little shops full of sparkling wonders
and rich with old sea tales and lore
finally daylight leaves us on the the sand with evening stars
greeting each of us with brilliant words spoken to the eyes
the night long with its thoughts shared between lovers
and there she cupped me in her gentle smile
i knew that kind of love once again
that a woman gives of her secret heart
like a summer rain
soft in touch and swift
deep with history's yet to be written
and rich with loves yet to be sung
and there once again she caressed my cheek
with tenderest touch and reassured
that all swift summer days contain such equal long nights
and she would not sway from her place
by my side
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
you have entered the realm of life after separation.
gone are the daisies she tucked behind your ears. it’s autumn now.
you are getting older. your boots are heavy and your chest is heavier.
you were given something gleaming, but it isn’t yours,
anymore. you seethe in your own ache.
this is your first silver october. the blushing leaves have gone greyscale,
like an i love lucy rerun. they evoke a stab of grief between your lungs.
you have to rewrite the story of your life now,
go forward knowing that everything after will be somehow
lesser than her. no person will reach into you the way she did.
you are a lost girl. resignation is all you have left,
resignation and streets bitter with dead leaves, streets where you run and shout
a silent prayer of loss.
but then:
but then.
you are reciting a poem for a room of people and your words
belong to your body now. a deep glow has fallen over everything,
right onto a girl you’ve only seen once before.
front row. face open. taking in what you are saying,
your retrospective sorrow, with a particular kind of attentiveness
you have needed all along.
everyone is listening, but she is hearing you.
in that moment, when you are raw and earnest,
you think that perhaps there’s something different about
this one. how even when you are done, she still seems to be
hearing all the words you cannot say.
and then:
and then.
spring is thrusting its way out of cold dirt
and you are twisting and breathing and this girl,
this girl, she is one million ******* shades of red. all you can do is
look at her without turning away, as if you could do such a thing
even if you tried. maybe this is how rembrandt felt
when painting night watch.
full of thick, rich burning too immense for language to hold.
this girl, this girl in the midst of life after. this girl so good
she’s put meaning back into the messy coming of spring.
you have learned not to trust. not to believe.
to love with a window open, a hand on the door,
in case of incineration, ready to run.
but this girl, says your heart,
says the peachy light bleeding onto her lips and nose,
this girl is not like those who came before her.
you’ve been a stranger to yourself for so long, but this girl
is reintroducing the two of you, rubbing you raw with longing.
do you understand, you want to say to her,
how stunning you are.
standing there like that. in your sincerity and laughter, as it weren’t
breath snatching to witness. as if it were commonplace,
unexceptional. as if you weren’t the tenderest work of art.
do you.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
the idea of putting your lips,
your lips that speak the kindest things,
your lips that sing the most beautiful words,
your lips that paint pictures and craft stories,
your lips that build and tear and design,
putting those angelic creations on someone else's body saying
i speak the kindest things for you,
i sing the most beautiful words for you,
i paint and craft for you, saying
i give you a part of me in every touch
the idea of kissing someone's neck,
of someone kissing yours,
yours where your most vital veins are,
one of the tenderest areas of you,
the passage between your head and your heart,
where all your thoughts roam,
Entrancing,
the idea of kissing someone's wrist and fingertips,
of someone kissing yours,
yours where your hand meets your arm,
where your typing and writing and drawing stem,
where your instruments sing,
where you touch them,
Beautiful,
the idea of kissing someone's torso,
of someone kissing yours,
yours where your heart lays,
where your breath lives,
where all your vitality sits,
with life and happiness,
Insane,
the idea of kissing someone's thigh,
of someone kissing yours,
yours that hold you up,
that run,
that walk,
that jump,
that are crazily powerful yet amazingly soft,
Humanizing
romance lives and dies on your lips, on mine.
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 9:01 PM UTC
Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons
Nymphs relent, when lovers near
Press the tenderest reasons?
Ah, they give their faith too oft
To the careless wooer;
Maidens' hearts are always soft:
Would that men's were truer!
Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;
When, o'er all the fragrant ground.
Early herbs are springing:
When the brookside, bank, and grove,
All with blossoms laden,
Shine with beauty, breathe of love,--
Woo the timid maiden.
Woo her when, with rosy blush,
Summer eve is sinking;
When, on rills that softly gush,
Stars are softly winking;
When, through boughs that knit the bower,
Moonlight gleams are stealing;
Woo her, till the gentle hour
Wake a gentler feeling.
Woo her, when autumnal dyes
Tinge the woody mountain;
When the dropping foliage lies
In the weedy fountain;
Let the scene, that tells how fast
Youth is passing over,
Warn her, ere her bloom is past,
To secure her lover.
Woo her, when the north winds call
At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,
Blaze the ****** brightly;
While the wintry tempest round
Sweeps the landscape hoary,
Sweeter in her ear shall sound
Love's delightful story.
1.5k
Then said Almitra, “Speak to us of Love.”
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them.
And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, it directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
-----Kahlil Gibran
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
I am feeling absurd. I had this tinge of shyness in my chest not before; but now I cannot bring myself to fail it. I am quite on the edge of the danger of falling in love again, yet I am anything but regret it; I am, again, devouring its marvel with the tenderest hopes of seeing him every time I venture out of my grounds, and into the winter's raging scenes. Oh, how unfortunate! I have savagely fought it - hurling myself against his image so that it would be crushed and carried out of my mind, alas, inexplicably, towards nothing but misfortune! As if fate hath once again decreed my hearty unrest by this punishment. Punishments no-one could ever come to deny: the sacred desires of loving, and the foremost comfort from the touches of affection. Oh, how I am again imprisoned in this silly infatuation! I might as well be a kid to him; he is unreachable, I am a yellow light beneath his illuminated sky. He is unapproachable; yet he is as sweet and tender; with charm as adorable as the falling snow. Once I could not slaughter the hilarity of his doings; yon picture kept breathing on my mind; torturing it boundlessly with throngs of witty jests! Oh my love, free me of this inherent misery: free me and carry me into the idleness of thy world; and rock me there. Silently in tranquility; I would embrace and endorse my love for thee; how long I to bestow this kiss on thy redolent dignity.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
Kahlil Gibran
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
There is a fair bit of you in every garden of my life.
Truly, that is nothing extraordinary, you should know it as objectively as I do.
Nevertheless, there is something I’d like to clarify:
When I say "in every garden”,
it is not only in relation to this of now,
this of waiting for you, of hoorah! i found you!, and ****** i lost you!,
and found again, and hopefully stops there.
Nor in regard of you suddenly telling me "I’m going to cry”,
then with a discrete lump in my throat "well go ahead”.
And then a graceful invisible rainfall arrives to assist us,
perhaps the reason the sun rises unhesitatingly right after.
I’m not just referring either
at the day-to-day fluctuation of the stock in our little decisive complicities,
or that I could or believe I can turn my deficiencies to victories,
or of you to bestow upon me the tenderest gift of your most recent despair.
No.
The situation is more serious.
When I state “in every garden” I mean to say that in addition to that sweet cataclysm,
you are also rewriting my childhood,
that age when one utters "grown up” and solemn phrases,
and the solemn grown ups celebrates them,
and conversely, you think of it irrelevant.
What I mean to say is,
you are reassembling my adolescence,
that time when I was an old man full of insecurities,
and contrarily, you know how to extract from there,
my germ of joy and consciously spread it.
What I mean to say is,
you are stirring my youth,
that vain vessel no one took hold of, that proud shade no one got close to,
and you on the other hand knows very well how to shake it
until the autumn leaves start falling
till there is nothing but the flesh of my triumphless truth.
What I mean to say is,
you are grasping my maturity,
that mixture of stupor and experience,
this unknown horizon of fear and certainty,
this relentless faith on my questionable strength.
As you can see, it is serious,
extremely more serious.
Because with these or different words,
I mean to say you are not only,
the dearest girl you are,
but also the splendid and cautious* women that I love and have loved.
Because thanks to you E, I have understood,
(you’d say it was about time, and with reason),
that love, is a beautiful and generous bay, that lightens and darkens as life goes by,
a bay where ships arrive and break away,
they arrive with blossoms and presages,
and they part with krakens and storm clouds.
A beautiful and generous bay where ships set down and then leave,
But E, you, please don’t leave.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
.
Reading the poetry of the dumb *****
Trying to cram a boy
Into the steel trap vacancy
Of their meaningless lives
While I probe into the lines
Hoping to find a remnant
Of something human
/////
// //
||
the gentle power
( creation )
The saint in celestial wisdom
Gazes into the pulsations of grace and humility
That linger amid
The countless assassinations
That are the mark of the world's depravity
•
dumb **** life !
The loveless pretensions !
( no one is really here at all )
)(
Just a bunch of kids
Getting ready to be *****
//
By others
And by themselves !
//
The stream that flows by the cabin door
)(
The pure maiden !
//
Alive in the healing magic of her art !
)(
The tenderest memories !
)(
And we ALL are there
::
The young boys and girls !
The sacred words !
The wealth amid the poverty
)(
We DO understand !
////
Along the broken dream streets
We stumble
Some
Trying to escape madness into the
Hearts of each other
Most trying to find solace
In the exicitment of pain
And the herd mentality
Of terminal indifference
•••
Child !
Be ready to choose
Even l am mortal
And will be here for only a little while more !
|||
So
Don't get slimed by a dumb ****
And their promises of numbness
As a form of peace !
We are the warriors
;;
The stream flows by the cabin door
See the pure maiden !
Find the love that is true
You are ALWAYS welcome there
.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
Language is the raw material
Transformation into art
Leaping through Alice’s looking glass
Breaking metaphors apart
Is it dark inside a poem
From whence it first sprang
Deeply repressed panic
Without judgment rang
Bringing pressured speech to light
Images of love and pain
Through clearly heightened senses
Uninhibited refrain
Where verbal acrobats spiral
Words on a poet’s page
That remind us and disturb us
In desperate outrage
With the pathos of a clown
On a winding rocky path
Reminders of death’s nearness
Terror spinning with a laugh
Pictures painted with premonitions
An atmosphere heavy in despair
Remnants of previous poets
Are blinding the reader in its glare
Quatrains moving merrily
Using images and tone
Making shapes with language
Shaping irony unknown
With tones bright and beautiful
Its matrix darkly savage
Through visual impressions
The reader’s heart is ravaged
Freedom of imagination
From whimsy to terror can bring
Surprising facetious word-play
Delivering irony’s sting
A psychological awakening
The tenderest love infused with dread
Blazing pathways joyous and dangerous
Irrevocable loss lies ahead
A telling detail without warning
Takes us to disturbing turns
The risky business of being born
Poets’ authority burns
It brings you to your senses
Through supernatural realms
Exploding realization
Its resonance overwhelms
Allusiveness to brutal honesty
It may sometimes misconstrue
In an abyss of isolation cries,
“What else can a poem do?”
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC