Anno Domini

’twas a serendipitous gift
that our restless paths
might cross
and I’d known
from the first glimpse
auburn tresses, tossed
wishful and curious
wondrous sun
to caress
our decades of loneliness
and its warm amber fell over us

through tall windows
loving even this darkness
we’d both known
oh, how you glowed
and how would we know
what’d soon follow
how could we know
what’d come of this
the wide-blossom burgeon
of a moment, shared
becoming divided
a demarcation
etched across
time’s wave-ocean glass
a luminous delineation
and a speechless epiphany
a before
and an after
and tho heathens
we’d now our own
Anno Domini

That already known

in these reckless exchanges
the truth of it emerges
from its shadow-keep
that already known, but forgiven
while still unspoken–
that I am loved–
but that I am not enough
and who shall ever be
I am who I am, love
I am what I have become
carved by these years
these many hammers and chisels
and tho now forsworn
my chest still heaving
‘neath my own fallen debris

I will be that which I shall be
I will live, for a short while
I will brush against the warm skin
of a few souls– passersby
and they, against mine
be I, this fortunate
and I will, in time
have spent
aye, and on some chasmal evenings
have squandered
all that I might ever have been

Midnight’s secluded palace

Gray-haired wizards gave electric music to despair’s lonesome tone; we drank our ale from tall tin, and we listened– as the band played, and we later kissed, tresses pulled, then let slip ‘tween curled fingers’ grasp, white teeth nibbling– in a hunger, at last remembered, and within Midnight’s secluded palace, poetry’s chipped-sickle wraith, diminished, returned to its grave.

a daydream’s peril

simply spoken, I do not know
if it’d be still owned
within myself– anymore
displaced, from its home
this, the echo-hollow
having filled itself
with more of itself– overgrown
its legions, its incarnations
bloated and swollen
and its claw-finger children
whose eyes haven’t glimmer
and whose mouths, sealed, never sing hymns

tho who’ve mumbled their poems
lurk, hungered–
birthing shadow within every crevice
where once each’d existed, as wishes
ambling, golden, like dust specks
floating without burden of earth
upon slender-amber rays of sun
aye, no place remains
in which a soul
might dare again
a daydream’s peril

the somber song

we’d need a thing taller than love–
to heal us, of our broken faith, lovers
a thing– taller than the stoic mountain
it’d wish be regarded
capped in sun-brushed, purple-heather sway
tho at its peaks, a petulant child, it’d be
bellowing its stone-tablet demands
aye, its red-faced, screaming needs
tho if it should listen
with compassion
it’d hear even
a fallen tear’s trailing whimper
we’d need a thing sager
than love, lovers
silent, when instead
it should roar
in defense of those unable
as are even those strongest of men
when midnight’s loathing
throws its sooty cloak over
our days
as even horizons know limits
we’d need a thing wider than love
my lovers–
to open its broad arms
in empathy’s grace
to accept, all we are
thus far, unforgiven–
to comprehend– we are not lonely
for wish of more company
billions of us, teeming
crawling over each other
to be known
loneliness is only
the hums and murmurs
of those souls, voiceless
in the long wander
the slow piano music
more absence, than sound
which finds no white-frill dancers
to glide within its subtle rhythms
the somber song
that only one
shall hear

conversations #1

“All men want that..”

“That is untrue. Some of us, or at least one of us, wishes only to know your nuance, those things missed, or disguised, and to learn the depth of one’s shadow; each with dimension, ’tis where we reside.”

ecstasy of sorrows

this business of living, kills us all
“He lived a good life,” they said
one, after another–
and the women wept, the men, solemn
hands folded, heads tipped, slightly down
watching seam-stocking legs and shining shoes
growing up– out of the sullen-umber ground
the combed-hair children, epiphanous, this day
ninety seven years after his own birth
shaking, wrinkle-knuckle handfuls of dirt
tossed upon his gleaming, black-lacquer box
and what does anyone know of a man
even in a near-century, to offer in eulogy?
most thoughts exist
only within a mind’s secrecy
never spoken, their treason
nor, especially, their selfless honor
never known, a man’s ecstasy of sorrows
these, his own, his doting harem of shadows
and to each, be he devoted
aye, and to all

Who will stay?

Who will stay
Until we are old, pale, and grayed, bodies fallen?

Who will stay
When we are broken, when we haven’t words
Knowing our silence, taking our hand as we are stilled by fear?

Who will stay
Through our whispering insanity
Finding forgiveness, though unfair, their crucifixion?

Who will stay
Cut by razor-tongue
Bleeding from confusion’s wounds, yet still drawing us near?

Who will stay
Through the rain’s gray pain
Until distant morning sun gifts us hope again?

Who will stay
When summer’s butterflies are gone
When perched love birds know only lonely songs?

Who will stay
Through the tumors, illness, through disease?

Who will stay
Longer than a warm, summer evening’s dream?

Who will stay
Who will prove themselves not a fantasy?

Some may look the sky
Their question, merely, why?
All I ask, tell me, please
Who will stay?

An older poem, tho timelessly relevant to me.