A SHORT TIME
February's wind rushed past my sides
as some kind of desolating voice,
and ashen clouds across the sky forged
a dismal ceiling no light could pass.
Elsewhere though, through the glass doorway, a
woman stood, and we exchanged a glance.
Perhaps on some waning summer night,
unencumbered by inhibitions,
I'll know something of you, the one that,
even if only for a moment,
has enslaved a poet's titan heart.
Why would it matter to them,
all drunk, if you are wise?
What was so certain for
myself has now quickly
exhausted from this all,
and departed like a
severed lily carried
slowly by black ripples.
Peruse in sleep, dreaming
concerned madrigals where
the loved and lovelorn must
reside side by side, and
you'll find every reason
to wake up shuddering.
Besides the empty cheers
still crawling through your head,
there's your clock's awful sound,
to remind you of your
TO A PERSUASIVE GIRL
I consider this as my reveille.
There was no bugle though, just a rising
sun waiting for me...
The basement of my mind has no windows
for me to dream out of. I haven't seen
the splendid people
soaring, like Icarus, among the clouds.
Instead, hordes of black spiders have spun their
webs all around here.
Drunk from time to time on the fading light,
my mind, that place crowded with fragments of
has found a reason to ascend the stairs,
though with caution, while beneath the weight of
my affection, which
you, only you, have made monstrous, each step
cries out like a ghost lost in time. The door,
unlocked, swings open.
And when you happen, in memories,
to glance my way, my thoughts, rubbing their eyes,
wake to a new day.
There's two clocks here
that now are through
And there's nothing that
I can do
Don't think I'll wait around
Ev'ryone I can't pursue
Ev'rything means nothing new
TO AN EMPATHIC GIRL
I have accepted, as all should, that in
time, the only uncertainty it seems,
I will pose eternally beneath an
ornate tombstone. I conceived them now for
an incantation, pithy psalms engraved
on my grave. Bright flowers ornament this
otherwise dismal gathering where the
sun, Enthusiasm's friend, naively
torments the black-clad spectators sharing
caterwauls like they were inspired by
their own grim secrets. Eventually,
in sullen splendor, when the worms burrow
into my eyes, and the roots navigate
around my bones, countless seasons will have
decayed my enamored tombstone and left
my name, now a memory pathetic
as my cold grave, incomprehensible...
When the moon lights some meloncholy night,
if I wander there, never will it be
a possibility for my vapor
arms to endure the air to embrace my
past remembrance, or if like a caprice
I opt to sift through a loved one's walls as
a ghost, only to see her no longer,
my whithered sobs will be a dissonance
in that room empty as my brazen soul.
Pensive evenings are all well,
but when, in haphazard ways,
you happen to lull the pain,
what else can it do but dream?
In these black January
nights, ransacked by Winter's hand,
I conceive my armory
while all the rest of the world
closes their eyes and pictures
themselves among grand ivory
porticos draped with ivy.
And there, forgotten, I study
my sacred weapons: Memoirs
deeply rooted to years past.
The sconces of your eyes have
fooled me, the duration I
ponder, speaking an ersatz
language I had thought to know.
But what did you know of me,
all forthright, and I of you-
you, my amorous fading
light, my momentary queen?
CASTLE IN THE SKY
Their arrival came unnoticed,
so, really, that's all you could do.
Perhaps you were meant to fall from
that airship beside a distant
moon, since in that gradual descent
you landed softly in my arms.
That morning I played my trumpet
as you became conscious, then I
told you my name; you told me yours.
Now we're weaving through clouds aboard
a pirate ship in the night sky.
I'll spot trouble from my lookout,
and up here the air is so cold.
Late this night, while our crew sleeps in
hammocks, you sneak up to my perch,
quite frightened by your own knowledge,
and there, still among the passive
shifting of enormous blue clouds,
we share a blanket, and calmly
wait for the castle in the sky.
I recall the quaintness of eating.
A notion almost absent these days.
I remember simpler times when,
frescoed with the evening, I could think.
How the departing days are left in
fragments- let me salvage tomorrow!
For you see, like always, you were there
-in mem'ry, in vision- by starlight...
So on these adoring nights, between
fascination and aversion, it
occurs to me how I've managed to
squander the purpose of shadows thrown
absently from the light of my lamp.
And when I sleep, eluding pallor,
the sound of you unlocking gateways
on rusted hinges calls for daybreak.
Out on the sea my sail is broken,
and I'm drifting to Yesterday's sky.
There should be benediction for the poet.
Perhaps a vigil, the workhours of artists,
when, if needed, a writer's lethargy could
be converted to exaltation, and their
words, the poet's prerogative, would align
with logic and mystique, ostentatiously.
It seems a time will always come, without pardon,
when the poet becomes bored; when no amount
of pondering will create literature.
Self motivation, although perhaps the most
vital requisite, alone can not withstad time.
Without desire, the bard becomes insincere.
It is in these times, when ennui becomes our
thoughts, that the countenance of prose is frowning.
Because, in fact, without desire, without
that rudimentary factor- which is our
sole purpose- there can not exist the poet.
Therefore, one's dispostion must be aroused.
My thoughts for Cecelia have no concord.
Sometimes curisouly long periods of
time will pass- months have passed- when neither of us
will have spoken to the other; a subtle
requirement to allay our own doubts.
And yet, it is in these times I imagine
only her, Pristine's chaperone, and her
innocent demeanor, sultry still, as she
goes out into the night, dressed for the brisk air,
and stretches across the flowers and blue grass.
In complete awareness she declares the wind
her comfort, and sleeps until dawn lights her face-
until the night has been subdued by her charms-
hers has the wayward expressions of sunsets...
...and then I am reminded of the image
I saw, not long ago, one early evening,
of the sky- but somehow painted on canvas-
illimitably bound by the setting sun;
and the many streams of cirri stretched across
the sky, like an array of habiliments,
were saturated with the mien of the sun.
But through this serene picture was a perfect
flaw! A slightly dissolved jetstream, extending
vertically, rendered with the same colors
as the sky's visage and the many cirri,
equally as glorious, appearing like
a swift brush stroke left by an angry painter.
I HAVE SEEN...
I have seen Absolute Beauty!
How the world, pinned behind the
splendor of those calm eyes, must seem
since assurance trails your each step
with unyielding obedience.
The mystics of perfect sunsets
coruscates from each expression
you bestow, changing gray into
something more pulchritudinous.
Gazes fixed on passing things, things
set for view, are passively struck
and lured to your lithe design, like
a drunk lost in conversation.
I'm telling you, peaceful Siren,
in a poet's sense, your array
of precious endeavors have me
unmistakably pliant in
this brief moment, this relentless day.