"youngness" poems
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Always dusk
Quilts like capes and
saying sweet goodbye - cheek kisses to summer,
August draws into September,
where seams don’t matter and everything changes colour.
We suddenly stop running and sit,
our youngness ages like the leaves
and our quilts gather dust
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
carve your heart in me, love.
deeper and away, our tender kisses bid the full moon farewell.
the pungent swelter of breath and the verdure of leaving furiously sway in attendance.
i can see you now through the pane of the next minute,
moving near with a moment's fervent undulation.
together with anonymous eyes, the stars watch in glee
unsheathing the night, flayed like a bare bone.
your thigh's silken river, brindled and flowing like words
from any loose tongue fragile enough to break.
my shaking hands tremble with a fresh fruit's succulent emergence,
rid of alarms, wringing the wine out of it for mine to drink.
chanting the mellow, the bed whirls with noise
when all of these volumes slither back to their caves,
i will touch with my territorial hands, your body's ample darkness and choke its depth,
concluding the sepulcher with the lightsome fire of my kiss and its workmanship.
all the things we once left trilling marks on
remain stilled,
watching at the edge of the pantheon, our souls unashamedly admitting that we are uncertain with ourselves.
i can hardly surrender fears to your brazen feelingfulness yet as your fingers try to unclose what the winter of living has hidden in the shroud of cold,
i find in me that we are each to ourselves
like autumn's tawny daughters.
the gentle ray of your wyes searches me
underneath the tumble of virginal sheets.
your ******* tingling fleshly in the sharp
stab of the air's crisp arrival through
the windows.
going down and finding myself in you
(my tongue breaking free from my mouth's dungeon leaving all words
and soldering this avid yearning)
dancing inside you
in sempiternal motion,
i can feel the sweetness
at the verge of breaking
like the length of words reduced
to all-telling moans.
rising and falling in the stillness
is the aftertaste, leaving me bright in
youngness, laughing freely
behind whose flumine hair sleeps
in the eventide far from ending
as my hand still roams like a starved beast
in the jungle of slackening breaths
and gushes of blood,
hunting for something still,
drunk in believing that this moist venture
will lead me to an unfaltering belief
that it was your heart that i have had
in my hands, forever to endure—
these moments
and their stark absences.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
a room full of grandmothers,
night-gold —
espials of eyes
syncopated.
take this thread and fissure
me love-struck.
tenderly the walls are white,
the mood: all malaise of trees in autumn.
Christ's redness in hymns
ho-hum angelward as rain
brings a discalced memory
close to sand by shores of repeated waves, where the gull tirelessly
punctuates
the water with its centric beak.
all youngness and beautiful
rising like cunning equinox,
slow auburn of eternities commits
to angels denied.
sharing something a memory would
espouse in lips dry like tropics,
looking down on familiar abandon,
reaching out with their hands and making
no sound, felt yet always, in tender
hours of night.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
"There's a demon at my window!"
I, when six, did say.
"There's a monster by my bed!"
I'd scream and cry away.
"I need a lighs to scare,
The goblins from my hair!
I want my teddy bear,
Right up by my face,
So they won't want to come,
And dance around this place!
I'll plug my ears so I won't hear,
Them laughing, chanting, in my ear!"
My mother, quite contained,
Knew what would give me peace,
But none of what I asked she gave.
She handed me a tiny cross,
And told me to be brave.
"When tiny minds can have no rest,
From all the goblins that give stress,
I ask the Lord, my little one, to bless."
And when she left me I did find,
No more I heard their devilish whine.
They no more climbed my walls,
Or chased each other through the halls.
They must have gone and sang their song,
By some other child's bed.
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
i do pretty things
20 or 3
whose strongly
frailing
bodies possess
youngness
in the
delightful crimp
of the 2
small dimples
they wear
on
their
lowering backs
up rising
cheek
wreathed tenderly verdant
promise
(!)
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 8:10 PM UTC
The elderly skin on my heart
Is thin but will no longer stretch tight again
Like a baby girls innocent cheeks grin
My senior citizen love comes at no discount
It's free to anyone who wishes to
Count the wrinkles on my arms and legs
The scars of time
Face it
Age is not a number it's a place
The youth of my youngness short lived
Took a toll on my skeleton
Bare ***** attitude toward commitment
I give it away as skin cells turned to dust
Never would've guessed it would be
In my chest
I still have a certain amount of elegance
There's a smaller fire in my heart sight
Kept my cardiac eyes as peeled as I could
The fight fought genuinely
But never without naïveté
How can it be this shocking?
The overall life EKG
Oh I know I'm only twenty something
Don't think I'm trying to act mature
You've made it clear I'm another heart sore
But your words bounce around my skull and
In my chest
Age is ageless memories
Numbers are mathematics
My heart attack tactics
Have grown my heart love decrepit old
So if you hold my hearts hand
Stand for something
Please
If I hold your hand and
You flow through my heart
Understand I'm more than willing to
Start again from day one again
Just forgive the crevices in my sternum permeating my heart skin
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
my hairline sweat and tears
mist from a shoreline,
paint down my wrinkles like waves cresting
a rocky beach,
my colors so dissolved, all my fleshy canvases
exposed to too much sun, my piercings all droopy,
teeth falling out. I need a hair cut a good dentist and Dr.
Phil. Or just strip down to my loincloth
go back to Rochester,
run with wildness, as I did then
through brush and bathed in purple
abandonement, virile unabsorbed
lazing under the mulberry brush
the willows swaying down to touch my unscarred youngness,
with hope with hunger, then.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
Shame has overwhelmed me,
like a mucous film between
me and reality.
Feelings came to the light,
eight years old, and now dead...
long ago on our way, we helped each other...
kindness was then massing, quasi in stack.
We were broken like old bones,
though we were packed with youngness:
life was the aim, one common, eternal and pleasant,
but one rupture has sealed and other ones just deepened.
An era has ended,
there was no windup.
Light had escaped our mutual darkness.
We were also guileful,
one coward, the other deceitful,
but some moments still stab me in the heart, once in a while.
As I've become a new man,
someone else brought me further ahead,
we found the common ground
and the bliss-spark growing into a blazing light.
Yet, sometimes on my neck, it's sitting...
the mucous shame is sardonically laughing at me.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC