The Turn Of Your Gaze

And by the wrath of your eyes,
in some moment of weakness,
– or perhaps a keen disregard –
strayed readily from your gaze,
only to fall upon the horizon,
as tho’, in your abrupt solitude,
you glimpsed some distant flower
which had well caught your eye
far better than I had e’er achieved;
was I now the unwanted betrothal,
forsaken of you by a mere gaze,
that which fell, not on my mercy,
but the vanity of a wayward rose;
take no pity on my unsettling feign,
that it be the last breath I offer,
or cry not for my dissemination,
for your desire lies now far away;
shall I remain ‘ere in dissolution,
unable to recognize my own death,
or shall I stay among the willows,
and, in wild repose, echo their muse.

 

O’, Hope! O’, Pride!

O’, Hope, had thee a heart,
‘twould enflame me now;
as would, in thy mercy,
bear my uncertainty,
for thru’ this trial of sorrow,
I must sorely then endure.

O’, Pride, flee from thy stead,
let Ease beget thy void;
‘ere this wound stains,
ne’ermore to be healed,
with Honor unbound again,
would I then have thy allure.

 

Mother Earth

And how well you know her;
The sea, the sky, the moon
and the stars are her flesh;
had she breathed within you,
unseen, at any given moment,
would you feel her caress;
‘ere the stars speak to her,
reverent, delicate whispers,
and the sky calls her name;
she is sea, she is sky,
she is the Earth itself,
laid bare to every breath.

 

I Hear The Stars

I hear the stars;
their fires crackling
in the distant void of space,
the screams they make
haunt the heavens as they burn.

They are dear to me;
these distant stars,
as close to my soul as breath,
like long lost friends
gathered now for my internment.

Honey sweetened air rises;
the nectar of Earth’s breath,
a gentle vesper wind
which I had ne’er before known,
now lifts my eyes to see the stars.

I hear them crying;
as if in pain, they wail,
upon the strong back of Pleiades,
they cry for their aging dilemma,
and thus, mirror my own tears.

 

Pillow Of Winds

The old man, I say, was kind;
unerringly sweet in his nature,
’twas life, as much was to him,
any mere act of heartfelt joy;
as if ’twere a pillow of winds
which lust for solace of home
among warmer rushes of air,
seeking respite in his hands.

Nor, was he prone to dream,
illuminate his own life illusions;
pragmatic, at hand and mind,
life as it came, nothing more;
of what the next hour of a day
might then rest upon his soul,
did, in his respite, but wonder.

And if ’twere to die in his hand,
that elusive white dove of hope,
would his heart then turn away,
dying more with each breath lost;
and ‘ere had he a mind to lend,
instead, simply, freely exist,
as but a natural land formation
wrought cold upon the Earth.

Now, died, as he had lived,
obscure and unnoticed, alone,
returned to waiting clouds,
those which had borne him,
now soft, a pillow of winds
lay serene, in quiet slumber;
e’er shall he search the sun
for that elusive white bird;
and each ending of the day,
find, once more within him,
some flame left unnoticed,
and he, as inconsequential
as the life, growth and death
of all the blades of grass in the world.

 

As In A Dream

Of her eyes, one can only wonder,
how vague in tender expression,
yet piercing in her gaze, is she;
in her eyes, my moves echoed,
from mere caress o’er her thighs,
to spittle that clings to my lips,
left in haste by her hungry kiss.

Of her flesh, undeniable in form,
as if gods painted silk upon her,
robust as a willow-nettled vale;
upon her flesh, waged from her,
or forms of a cloud by its design,
now amorphous in her awares,
rising with every offered breath.

Of her hand, in my tender grasp,
she now so willingly lends to me,
‘ere submitted flesh upon flesh;
that she has weight in her breath,
clinging to my gaze for acquiesce,
her unfettered abandon plays on,
as in a dream, so easily extolled.

 

And Like Rain

And like rain, she had worth;
not a squall, so wild appears,
to cleanse the bitter earth,
but soft, as frugal tears;

as if the sky did but weep,
then, aware of her release,
now closed its eyes to sleep,
as her tears drift with ease,

for one last mist of sorrows;
and like rain, stippled landing,
on mirrored glass she borrows,
of puddles, still left standing;

‘ere tread soft her footfalls,
now hazed with water shed,
rippled o’er her garden walls,
years of pain, now long dead;

reflections of a sullen moon,
glazed o’er her weary eyes,
her tears but fell too soon,
and like rain, she left the skies.

 

I Name Her Sorrow

This dulcet girl, without spoil,
solaced, and thus, unrendered,
‘ere laid still on garden soil,
now barren, and untendered;
how sweet, and yet, unruly,
in her heart, she but cries;
how still and soft, truly,
such vastness in her eyes;
as if the shedding of tears
could but cleanse stain’d breast
of her longing, e’er my years
would but scald with unrest;
tho’ bare winds held aloft,
with gossamer winged tips,
could taste no more, but soft,
the elder wine of her lips,
salted now by her long sorrow;
she but cries alone, still,
‘ere she, in wan of morrow,
would but her kisses spill;
thus uttered soft, but no more
shall e’er I set forth my acclaim,
would I speak to her, my adore,
my intent, her whispered name.

 

This Is My Sky

This is my sky.
I may call it mine
because I own this moment.

I, alone, am standing here
at the very break of dawn,
awake and alive to the world,
and yet, am I still in dreaming.

I, alone, gaze out across
this newly dawned horizon,
with its fresh colors of the day,
still crisp among the misty air.

I, alone, own this breath,
and I watch this new sunrise,
cognizant of its daily chore,
yet accepting it as virgin light.

I, alone, choose the moment
which burns itself in memory,
that break of day now mine,
which no one can steal away.

This is my sky.
I claim it as a whole,
but only as part of this moment.

 

Untitled

Her eyes,

like the sky,

whisper of rain,

but hold their tone

as she captures a breath

with but a promise of tears,

rather than shedding her full sorrow

in one failed respite alone in her room.