Dear Poet Friends, this poem was composed as a tribute and praise
to the Creator of heaven and earth way back in the year 2008, & was posted on ‘Poemhunter.com’. The Creator’s handiwork has inspired Poets, Artists, and Humans alike since the dawn of our
civilisation, and shall continue to do so for our future generations! Hope you like this poetic composition. I will be grateful if you comment only after having read the entire poem.  Thanks, - Raj

VISIONS OF THE VAST BLUE EMPYREAN
                * BY RAJ NANDY*

       '’The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
        The sky proclaim His divine handiwork!’’
                                                   - Psalm of David.

(I)
The SKY is a multidimensional manifestation of God's
creation,
A translucent blue canopy above all and one.
The sky has inspired humans for centuries to aspire
and dream, -
To seek His blessings and guidance from above;
And shall continue to do so for centuries to come!
The sky beckons and lures with its mystical spell;
Making humans with leaping aspirations to try out
and reach, -
Those frontiers where the sky is the unlimited limit of
all our hopes, aspirations and dreams!
The sky, lush, luring, luminous, and sweet, -
Invites, entice, and fills us with a sense of wonder!
How God-like in appearance, and almost human in
its expressions!
The sky has remained as a silent witness to the birth
of our planet,
Since God created the firmament and the heavens,
before creating the Earth.
The sky, a silent spectator since eons past,
Shall continue to see the fading away of old stars;
And formation of baby galaxies in a cosmic drama of
His creation,
Lying beyond the comprehension of Mankind!
While we try to delve His secrets with our space probes,
Which we can neither fully comprehend nor unravel;
And shall only continue to wonder and marvel!

(II)
The blue sky continues to inspire and even melts,
While its blue translucence silently seep into the
Poet's heart,
As he sits to reflect and shape his thoughts,
And the vast expanse of the ethereal sky,
Stretching his mind with future dreams and
visions!
While the azure blue begins to flow through his
veins, and gets transmitted through his pen, -
To convey his exalted thoughts and deepest feelings,
in poetic lines and verse, -
Which becomes the Poet's sole mission.
And at night when the Poet meditates, he catches a
falling star,
And writes a poem on it and keeps it in his pocket, -
Saving it for a rainy day!
And during the silence of the night, when the hours
grow dark and deep,
And the sky gently droops and drips;
The poet wakes up to write, and writes to sleep!

(III)
The sky flows on to the canvas of the Painter,
As he tries to depict its varied complexions and moods,
With his limited colours, shades and hues,
Flashing and spilling his canvas with touches of tints
and tones,
To captivate the capricious, transient and fanciful moods,
which the sky adorns!
The deep blue empyrean is at times blissful and sublime,
Changing from a radiant, opulent, and iridescent, -
To threatening, cruel, and violent;
Both devastating and destructive as the sweeping
tornado or a hurricane!
Yet when God decides to paint the Aurora Borealis those
magical Northern Lights, -
Those glowing diaphanous curtains of waving, swirling
streamers of lights,
With its red, green, blue, violet, and luminescent spell-
binding shades;
How can any artist foolishly dare to compete or replicate
His celestial art?
For the Auroras are a reflection of His live real time
handiwork, -
Which shall never diminish or fade!

(IV)
The crystal blue arch of heaven, a glorious canopy
cover over our head,
Blesses us with the much needed shade;
From the tormenting and scorching rays of the
relentless Summer's sun.
With its varying layers of passing clouds, -
As the sun completes its diurnal rounds!
Those high cheerful cirrus and cirro-stratus clouds
of the Winter sky,
The meditating alto-cumulus and alto-stratus clouds
of medium heights;
And those upward swelling, ambitious clouds of
cumulonimbus, -
Carrying the thunder bolts and lightning of the great
Zeus do confound us!
And finally those low sheets of stratus clouds of the
rumbling monsoon sky;
Bringing incessant rain and lightning darts, -
Flashing like a whip lash across the sky and the earth!
With the speed of sound always lagging behind that
of light, -
Thus thunder bolts always follow those blinding flashing
darts of dazzling blue lights!
While the good Earth absorbs it all like some suffering
soul,
And forever regenerates itself to transcend its
tormenting plight!

(V)
The clouds floating like fluffy wool of cotton and
the downs of white goose feathers,
Adds dimensions, visual depth, definition and a sense
of perception;
For the human mind to behold and meditate, -
Those vast measureless depths of the infinite space!
The clouds with its varying forms and shapes,
At times like the ice cream cones with vanilla
tops and wisps of cream;
Keep floating across the cerulean blue, forming
and melting, -
From one nothingness into another,  below the
arched vault of the heavens!
And at times the clouds coalesce to dissipate as
gentle rain,
With rhythmic beats, or follow some wild musical note,
Lashing against the earth like a dancer in trance!
While it brings down the cool aqua, the very elixir of
life to earth.

(VI)
The sky is held captive by its own void of eternal
silence.
As nature's mirror, it reflects and also shows us a
glimpse of the infinite!
While the night sky by itself exhibits a wondrous
sight,
With the sentinel stars shining like a living hymn
written in light!
And the ebony treasure vault of heavens hold the
sparkling and glittering countless gems;
Of pearls of lily white, rubies with red sheen,
And galaxies shimmering like hyacinth of purple
light!
The sky envelopes the earth all around in an elusive
embrace of unconsummated love!
But each night, in hope and expectations the Sky
adorns itself, -
With diamond necklace and pearls of milky white,
Woven round its dark black flowing stresses;
Casting longing looks towards the beloved Earth,
To whom she is attracted from her very birth!

(VII)
The sky despite its wide range of colourful
spectrum and moods,
Forever retains its pristine colour of azure blue,
behind its gray and somber clouds.
Each morning the sky presents us with a clean
blue slate,
Where nothing ever remains written or etched!
Inspiring humans to make a new beginning,
Before time runs out and it becomes too late!
Yet the sky never forgets to reflect the arched
rainbow over its brow,
Once the thunder clouds and storms dissipate!
Keeping our hopes and aspirations forever alive;
And impelling us to strive in all our endeavours
and to excel!

(VIII)
The sky remains as a revelation of God's immaculate
handiwork.
The blue welkin, God's treasure trove, with its
capricious moods,
Sometimes furious, sometimes iridescent, but by nature
divinely sublime!
The sky a recurrence of happenings, with its speckled dance, -
Of colours, cadence, and of light and shade,
Giving us a taste, smell and feel of eternity, -
Which appears as real, though illusory and ephemeral!
Transcending all our scientific formulas, speculations
and intricate *******-up logic;
Since many mystical and unknown energy forms exist in
our sky and space,
Beyond the realms of Quantum Physics , String Theory,
the Higgs Field and Relativity!  * ( see Notes below)
And forces can even be made to emanate from the human
mind and soul and to transcend, -
To blend with those vibrations in the celestial spheres of
the Divine!

(IX)
The sky shall forever remain a source of exhilaration
and exhortation for mankind, -
And as an exaltation of God's divine and lofty thoughts!
The sky also remains as our ultimate frontier, -
Stretching the dimensions of human consciousness,
Till our consciousness learns to merge with the Divine;
To become one and to blend, under the blue vault of
our blissful Empyrean!
                                                       -  by RAJ NANDY, NEW DELHI

(*NOTES: The five different versions of the String Theories know as the 'The M- Theory' of Quantum Physics, which tries to explain the origin of all things through the vibrations of nano strings. The latest discovery of the Higgs Field, which is said to add mass to subatomic particles; are our humble and insufficient efforts to understand God’s mysterious creation of the universe and space!)
      (ALL COPY RIGHT ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY)

Renee Vivien Translations


Song
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the moon weeps,
illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful,
my memories creep
back to you, wrapped in flightless wings.

It's getting late; soon we will sleep
(your eyes already half closed)
steeped
in the shimmering air.

O, the agony of burning roses:
your forehead discloses
a heavy despondency,
though your hair floats lightly ...

In the night sky the stars burn whitely
as the Goddess nightly
resurrects flowers that fear the sun
and die before dawn ...



Undine
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Kim Cherub (an alias of Michael R. Burch)

Your laughter startles, your caresses rake.
Your cold kisses love the evil they do.
Your eyes―blue lotuses drifting on a lake.

Lilies are less pallid than your face.

You move like water parting.
Your hair falls in rootlike tangles.
Your words like treacherous rapids rise.
Your arms, flexible as reeds, strangle,

Choking me like tubular river reeds.
I shiver in their enlacing embrace.
Drowning without an illuminating moon,
I vanish without a trace,

lost in a nightly swoon.



Amazone
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

the Amazon smiles above the ruins
while the sun, wearied by its struggles, droops to sleep.
******’s aroma swells Her nostrils;
She exults in blood, death’s inscrutable lover.

She loves lovers who intoxicate Her
with their wild agonies and proud demises.
She despises the cloying honey of feminine caresses;
cups empty of horror fail to satisfy Her.

Her desire, falling cruelly on some wan mouth
from which she rips out the unrequited kiss,
awaits ardently lust’s supreme spasm,
more beautiful and more terrible than the spasm of love.

NOTE: The French poem has “coups” and I considered various words – “cuts,” “coups,” “coups counted,” etc. – but I thought because of “intoxicate” and “honey” that “cups” worked best in English.



“Nous nous sommes assises” (“We Sat Down”)
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Darling, we were like two exiles
bearing our desolate souls within us.

Dawn broke more revolting than any illness...

Neither of us knew the native language
As we wandered the streets like strangers.
The morning’s stench, so oppressive!

Yet you shone like the sunrise of hope...

                     *

As night fell, we sat down,
Your drab dress grey as any evening,
To feel the friendly freshness of kisses.

No longer alone in the universe,
We exchanged lovely verses with languor.

Darling, we dallied, without quite daring to believe,
And I told you: “The evening is far more beautiful than the dawn.”

You nudged me with your forehead, then gave me your hands,
And I no longer feared uncertain tomorrows.

The sunset sashayed off with its splendid insolence,
But no voice dared disturb our silence...

I forgot the houses and their inhospitality...

The sunset dyed my mourning attire purple.

Then I told you, kissing your half-closed eyelids:
“Violets are more beautiful than roses.”

Darkness overwhelmed the horizon...

Harmonious sobs surrounded us...

A strange languor subdued the strident city.

Thus we savored the enigmatic hour.

Slowly death erased all light and noise,
Then I knew the august face of the night.

You let the last veils slip to your naked feet...
Then your body appeared even nobler to me, dimly lit by the stars.

Finally came the appeasement of rest, of returning to ourselves...
And I told you: “Here is the height of love…”

We who had come carrying our desolate souls within us,
like two exiles, like complete strangers.



Renée Vivien (1877-1909) was a British poet who wrote primarily in French. She was one of the last major poets of Symbolism. Her work included sonnets, hendecasyllabic verse and prose poetry. Born Pauline Mary Tarn in London to a British father and American mother, she grew up in Paris and London. Upon inheriting her father's fortune at age 21, she emigrated permanently to France. In Paris, her dress and lifestyle were as notorious as her verse. She lived lavishly as an open lesbian, sometimes dressing in men's clothes, while harboring a lifelong obsession for her closest childhood friend, Violet Shillito (a relationship that apparently remained unconsummated). Her obsession with violets led to Vivien being called the "Muse of the Violets." But in 1900 Vivien abandoned this chaste love to engage in a public affair with the American writer and heiress Natalie Clifford Barney. The following year Shillito died of typhoid fever, a tragedy from which Vivien never fully recovered. Vivien later had a relationship with a baroness to whom she considered herself to be married, even though the baroness had a husband and children. During her adventurous life, Vivien indulged in alcohol, drugs, fetishes and sadomasochism. But she grew increasingly frail and by the time of her death she weighed only 70 pounds, quite possibly dying from the cumulative effects of anorexia, alcoholism and drug abuse.

Keywords/Tags: Renee Vivien, lesbian, gay, LBGT, love, love and art, French, translation, translations, France, cross-dresser, symbolic, symbolist, symbolism, image, images, imagery, metaphor, metamorphose, metaphysical

She sits
- untouched -
Amidst the pyres
Of unconsummated male desires.

Her perfect lips
- cold and unkissed -
Disappoint anticipated bliss.

No lethal weapon will suffice.
All ******* symbols turned to ice.

Yet, all around;
Sad men abound.
Each condemned to spend his days,
Unfulfilled ....beneath her gaze !

Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm

I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover

There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain

And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat

And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas

Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best

There's a girl I think about, sometimes
On wet afternoons, and when I'm on my own
Well, she's an older woman now but still a first affection
With a family, grown to middle age
And a dead husband in her past, somewhere.

We knew each other forty years ago, perhaps
In an army town; or was it slightly later?
We were never intimately joined
In those prophylactic, pre-pill times
And the frowning fathers, narrow-eyed on the fringes

She could drive, and had her mothers car that day
We slunk out to a field, to dispose of her virginity
But, the military fuzz they quickly found us
And took us in to the local station
Heart thumping, testosterone levels tumbling

That was the last time that we met, I think.
We corresponded fitfully, and for a short time after
But somehow shame and not a little guilt
At what I'd done and left undone, sputtered the phrases and
Quite soon the letters stopped arriving.

Unconsummated but never quite forgotten, last week
A Facebook message in my in-box, unbidden
From a name unfamiliar to me, and suspicious
"Dear Sir" it read, and proceeded to announce itself
Auspicious, as my former lovers son.

Can this be you? the lovers son enquired politely
My mothers friend that we talked about at Christmas?
Triumphant, there mother! I have found him
Far across the years and using now's technology
Across a lifetime of separateness

I sensed in her a broad reluctance, despite the introduction
From her child, who's person never was a factor
To connect with me again, this different person
Risking the diminution of that dimmed image, the remnant
Of who we had been that time

And why not? Why confuse the layers and the generations?
The forewarned spectacle of our sad reunion
Uncomfortably eye-ing each other with little left in common
Awkward unsaid phrases hanging out to dry
In the flag-fluttering breezes of our allusions.

But, in fact, there had been another reason I admit
For shame that final hour that final day
When I had been revealed in all my nakedness as wanting
Tongue tied and mumbling my excuses to the sky
Youth I was, weak, poor and unconvincing

The police were brusque and thoroughly impersonal
Growled deep-throated at my love and I.
And I; I discarded my affection for security and left her there
Disconsolate and disbelieving in the police station
More worried about the facing of my father

And so we left it then last week with little left unsaid
Knowing both it was too late and too unknown
For reintroductions as the people we had been
Unconvincing in our bright and sharpened protestations
Preferring poor relations in a foreign country

There's a girl I think about, sometimes
On wet afternoons, and when I'm on my own
Well, she's an older woman now but still a first affection
With a family, grown to middle age
And a dead husband in her past, somewhere.

We knew each other forty years ago, perhaps
In an army town; or was it slightly later?
We were never intimately joined
In those prophylactic, pre-pill times
And the frowning fathers, narrow-eyed on the fringes

She could drive, and had her mothers car that day
We slunk out to a field, to dispose of her virginity
But, the military fuzz they quickly found us
And took us in to the local station
Heart thumping, testosterone levels tumbling

That was the last time that we met, I think.
We corresponded fitfully, and for a short time after
But somehow shame and not a little guilt
At what I'd done and left undone, sputtered the phrases and
Quite soon the letters stopped arriving.

Unconsummated but never quite forgotten, last week
A Facebook message in my in-box, unbidden
From a name unfamiliar to me, and suspicious
"Dear Sir" it read, and proceeded to announce itself
Auspicious, as my former lovers son.

Can this be you? the lovers son enquired politely
My mothers friend that we talked about at Christmas?
Triumphant, there mother! I have found him
Far across the years and using now's technology
Across a lifetime of separateness

I sensed in her a broad reluctance, despite the introduction
From her child, who's person never was a factor
To connect with me again, this different person
Risking the diminution of that dimmed image, the remnant
Of who we had been that time

And why not? Why confuse the layers and the generations?
The forewarned spectacle of our sad reunion
Uncomfortably eye-ing each other with little left in common
Awkward unsaid phrases hanging out to dry
In the flag-fluttering breezes of our allusions.

But, in fact, there had been another reason I admit
For shame that final hour that final day
When I had been revealed in all my nakedness as wanting
Tongue tied and mumbling my excuses to the sky
Youth I was, weak, poor and unconvincing

The police were brusque and thoroughly impersonal
Growled deep-throated at my love and I.
And I; I discarded my affection for security and left her there
Disconsolate and disbelieving in the police station
More worried about the facing of my father

And so we left it then last week with little left unsaid
Knowing both it was too late and too unknown
For reintroductions as the people we had been
Unconvincing in our bright and sharpened protestations
Preferring poor relations in a foreign country

Wind keeps on
reminding the waves
something cryptic,
even the leaves
perking up their ears,
fail to grasp it!

Though wind
repeated it,
again and again,
leaves vacuously
rustled, remained silent.

The waves in a
spectacular pattern,
respond to wind,
desperately trying
to grab the truth.

Sitting on the shore,
between blue sea
and mountain peaks,
observing the grand play enchanting,
he feels excluded,
from this conversation,
that remains obscure;
unconsummated
between the wind and the waves.

"The meaning is right here,
but one hardly
gets it, unless
desire to attain it is overpowering"
in tears, she said
exasperated, not able to go beyond the shore.

"we are like waves and leaves,
give it a miss, get confused,
vision of ultimate truth is the crux,
unless the eyes are opened,
filled with light, one fails, has to repeat"
he replied, like one tasted failure many times.

"you've blindfolded
your eyes, willingly
and complain;
be patient
work on your
inner world,
let the light drive  away the night"
the master smiled as he said.

"Roaring wind and waves
fire, earth and space,
the secrets they hold
are within the inner world"

At the end of narrow path
is the placid pond
where water is still:
truth absolute is reflected.

**"Life after life,
one walks round and round
seeking that blue stillness,
where one would
see one's true self reflected,
when the moment arrives."

ironies usurp courage
adventure scowls unsated
Times New Roman ****
pixels unconsummated
similes sin-taxed for hits
stale nefarious negging
all heros on the page
reality waits begging




- - - - - -

This night
my mind is a homing pigeon eager to vector notes
to and from a distant
unmet,
Unconsummated
love.
It's the message content
I struggle.
Is it love when your words fillet me open
and render me carrion
in my own dreams?

Will I ever define love?
The trouble with this, twisty-fickle-phenomena,
This, celebrated emotion – and it is just an emotion,
This, elusive heart-thrumming, head-spinning, pleasure,
A pleasure not even eclipsed by unmatched wealth,
Not surpassed by the most prized possessions.

In fact, even prized possessions, coveted things of beauty,
(Insignificant as they are to the wise and knowledgeable,)
Have an attachment akin to love, a kind of love, I suppose,
At least to those dumb enough to think possessions are special,
Who no doubt gaze longingly at what is simply ‘a thing’.

Maybe a rare ‘thing’, but ‘a thing’ all the same,
No, I’m talking of love for another, caring affection,
Adoring eyes for a living breathing creature,
Maybe even an animal, a pet, but more so,
The love of another human, a special person.

This is a little ‘tricksy’ is it not? Hmm? Yes,
For such a love encompasses many things,
Often runs riot in the mind, tingling the nerves,
Experiencing loyalty, betrayal, honour, slyness,
Sacrifice, greed, trust, duplicity, selfishness, sharing,
Because, well, one never knows, not really, no.

This magical dreamlike emotion, and it is an emotion,
Is different for us all, for one person's love,
Can be another’s flight of fancy, an escapism,
For some, it is a lethal weapon, so deadly, so cruel,
While for others, it is the most beautiful thing on Earth,
Yet, it inspires the most horrendous fits of jealousy known.

Love, real love, imagined love, astral love,
Consummated and unconsummated love,
Love of the heart, love of the mind, love of dreams,
All, are in reality, true enigmas, beyond explanation,
I am in love, I am a lover, I adore love, all kinds of love,
I fall in and out of love, as do many, I know love,
I can sense, touch, taste, even smell love,
And yet, for all of this, I wonder,
Will I ever define love?

©Paul Chafer 2014

I am no judge of good character
(think I am the greatest poet-***-bf ever)

I used to be a sharp dresser,
(then to the time twisted testing,
t'is of tiny import sense succumbed)

I used to love woman by the score
(Ha! fooled ya, still do, will dying do so,
but caught in a single spider's heartweb,
I read, and I love, and cheat only nowadays
with weak eyes and strong words)

I used to be young in heart,
(self impressed at my talented prose,
but then my eyes grew keener,
the more I read, the older I got,
the more others led me faster,
sweeter to the promised land)

so I trip 'n skip in the waterfall pool,
that forms where the poems cascading
are laid down to peaceful repose to keep,
and too oft, sad uneyed loneliness

yet, I see a graffiti on the clear bottom,
white paint upon an earthen rock,
wipe away the eddys, put aside the ego,
lift it, lift me up, that stone,
with caressing care to read:

So Jo Was Here

oh indeed indeed in deed another poet,
who blues my heart with words modest,
in combinations that say to me
you knew that, but not till now!

how did she know that

words and words and -
ironies usurp courage
adventure scowls unsated
Times New Roman ****
pixels unconsummated
similes sin-taxed for hits
stale nefarious negging
all heros on the page
reality waits begging

I read and I think
did I not write these words?

love is a bittersweet borrowed lie
time is a slowly emptied sigh
deception is the sharpest yet rustiest lance
and rage the slowest, saddest dance
while truth's just polished-up confusion
with words - the slipperiest illusion

But I did not!
nope but I read them cause

So Jo Was Here

stoked and croaking,
addicted, I read on
only to find my mirror image
once again, one mo' time crime

But I was held unknotted only,
oblivion teetering on the pinch
of a thumb and forefinger.

Until slowly but cynically,
gasp by gasp,
all was forced out, and when
the moment came to go,
there was nothing left to go on

so it is written, so it will be read

then you can say too,
as I did, as I here confess,
in my recesses unexplored,
trembled to find,
overjoyed to be
me revealed
cause:

*So Jo Was Here

My hammock swings escaping
from a highway of life hurrying
On to your caring tree trunks hanging
With orchestras of cicadas noisily serenading

The cool breeze anaesthesizes
My thoughts that’ve climbed some distant ridges
At home in the shattered temple, unconsummated promises
At peace now in modesties that only time did bless

Within the underground cathedral lie:
          The mind’s a hermit of hidden truths he’d prophesy
          The will’s a gallant warrior refusing to die
          The heart’s a playful child chasing a butterfly

Along the banks of rivers clear I weave
broken lines from silk spun, the caterpillars believe
to wait in purgatories of gold-laden chrysalises, then leave
resurrection is heaven as wood-nymphs emerge and live

When waters flow beneath the bosoms and bowels of the earth
The wizards in rendezvous, solace in endless mirth
Shadows of misty mornings embrace your trees - all heights and girth
I shall rest, heart in mind, that death’s a reality, as natural as birth.

unconsummated snow
melting in the sun
choreographing blooming bulbs
sown below the sheets
warm flowering fantasies
with nectar gushing down
the freckled blossoms of my dreams
craving hands fluttering south
like migrating butterflies

The Empty Field

In a cornfield lay a young girl,
With hazel eyes and brown curls,
Every Sunday she courted him,
After church when the light was dim;
Their love was the sweetest breath,
An unconsummated tenderness,
Lips touching, arms strong,
Did not hear the coming bombs.

Two years in the field they lay,
Grew closer at each passing day,
Spoke their dreams under the sky,
Hoped that neither soon would die;
A ring she wore upon her hand,
Something simple to understand,
His name was Bill and hers Grace,
Unified by a single faith.

At eighteen he went to war,
Left his sweetheart by the shore,
Held her warmth against his chest,
On his shoulders her head did rest;
Then one night she had a dream,
He came to her, it did seem,
To say one last goodbye,
To the girl to be his bride.

She waited but not a word,
From her handsome airforce boy,
Then it came, told how he died,
Flying in the blue so high;
It was the first day of his war,
That took her first love and her joy,
Now in the cornfield under the sky,
The grass has grown where she did lie.

Love Mary
Based on my Mother's life

All is familiar to me.
I walk outside down the grass hill &
See only mirrors reflecting mirrors.
I could go to Cuba
& cast a Santerian shade.
But spirits are my desires unconsummated
When made familiar thro’ mirror positioning.
The World is a place Time made familiar.
However, when a still mirror reveals
The Oblivion in the pits of my eyes,
I shudder with wet bones,
& walk again through the mirrors
Reflecting sparkling mirrors.

out of sight out of mind:
    otherwise feeding on opinions -
to somehow find
a reactionary me:
   better still: to leech onto
a driftwood of dialectics -
    but this silence of the mind...
i can't call it anything but:
a silence of the mind...
having to arrive late...
   late to a "party"...
                      or...
                    slang... or some:
in-group preference...
details:
it's not enough
   to have a dialectical - yes...
even an ambition...
for the most part...
     it is to have some unshakeable
ideological foundations...
to be persuaded...
to be subverted...
            
well i do have a few of my own:
but i hide them -
not out of shame...
disgruntlement of otherwise:
perhaps i am a coward
or perhaps...
      solo projects akin
to ping pong are just daft...
otherwise cognitively
debilitating...

we: yes... there's a "we" are
pandering to some
moon-settlers project
of beijing...
         culture death my
withering ears...
i could come by tomorrow
as blind...
and... lie in bed all day...
listening to bbc radio 3
wouldn't even cross
my mind as anything
remotely related to either:
bad, or idea...

it's a hardening of arteries...
calling blood the nuanced
fudge...
a simple task for the prison
of life:
like a very important
arithmetic of counting
toothpicks:
    best those not used...

a degrading sadness of an absence...
otherwise nuances:
           a borrowed mishap...
something begging from
an e. e. cummings...
      cut-offs and...
         what years we lived
when there was a nostalgia
for 1950s through to...
   of h'american literature...

the gist of the beatnik mantra...
scraping from the soviet satellites...
a flirtation from beyond
the satellite states that...

      it would be very formidable
in the governing body of silence:
to somehow pester away
the needs of chit-chat...
   small-talk...
                       if only...
         there was a sparrow brain
ingrained in the frivolity of
the stated affair...

points of nuance and some
left-over blues:
this overtly-psyche-complications
of robotic familiarity -
the desire to ask
for water from a stone...
a cuddle from a serpent...
a god from a monkey...

the last known edit and that first
tangling of weapons known
as... etymological-disparity-of-nouns...
or the etymological-noun-congregation...
certainly not among
pronouns or conjunctions...

my grammar skeleton heaving
prose-esque ambitions...
how i don't rhyme or: meter...
such written... mute towing...
for eyes alone...

           a 7am redemption -
a pedestrian employment of:
                 tickling legs...
two minutes apart: or two minutes
together...
   a dry key in a wet keyhole...

the disambiguation of greek...
            from a φ into a θ...
                               under the earth
of a multitude of voices...
some pipsqueak
                loiter of a man...
lumberjack tally...
                 words of shoveling
diamonds as: composed grains of sand...
a loot of a curriculum vitae -
an "inconvenience" of punctuation...
hell... what about teasing
orthography:
it's not like english (language)
will ever pursue orthography...
            
              breaking the bank of metaphysics...
of course english will be
broken parted drawn apart
on the topic of: the language
written and the language spoken...
a language hardly seen...
when:

              loch and chisel make gratitude
of the same meat:
a silesian delight of silesian
potato nuggets... a cow tow of tongue...
in a creamy horseradish sauce...
sparrows attend to the pretences of
small-talk...

my burden of thought:
  moral, ought...
            or the very physicality
of: copernicus ate
a fried egg rather than
scrambled eggs one day...

surd letters: notably the H...
and diacritical application...
e.g. CHeap
               vs.  Čas (time)
or... SHeep vs. Šyk (vogue)
  compiled: SHCH: Щ:
             ŠČ(ek): bark...
to bark: ŠČ-eka-ć
to hide the halved-crown on a letter...
then again: to somehow hide
letter(s)...
             details unconsummated...
rigid details...
satanic ploy of hidden ambitions...
in english: a **** canvas...
perhaps, reminded: as a "waiting"
attempt...
    
it all works perfectly fine...
in the mind of firm rooting posit...
the bilingual is the new schizophrenic...
unshakeable foundations:
dreams up being awake...
slouches toward an inconvenience
of being asleep...

hell-** some quest of a Mr. Shaw...
Jan Huß...
    breaking the crab of Y
and constellation of gamma and upsilon...
detailed art this clinic
of orthography...
but it's no surprise...
the english have no orthological
"questions":
loophole darwinism of the pop
monkey project of metaphysics...

and better quest for nuance
with satellite and aeons and a side
project of: the  silence of saturn...

the celebrated protagonist plot line...
of a tiger...
a lion...
           here: insert herd...
that predators are celebrated...
towing tiger...
           but never in a homogenous
debility of: NO OUTSIDE INFLUENCE...
man borrows: scrutiny...
man plays with leverage and:

a scrutiny of a blinding project.