Seek no more houses O Child
All walls are things of sorrow
Let us be orphans
A homeless light;
Neither a gift nor a cause to borrow
But a fire that awakes
On unmoored ships in the middle of the sea
And a dappled world asleep neath
Moonlight through canopy
They say to make a man;
Break him first
And only then the broken pieces
Ever becomes poetry
Alas no poet worth his salt
Has ever felt sorrow
For his feelings
Are bound to words
Which he passes down the morrow
So others could see it too
Like dry puddles of rains long past;
The shape; a shadow faded
Into brittle skin
And wounded wind
And a disguise that weighs too vast
There is no shame in being silent
As the world marches on;
To step aside the rails
And lay down in the fields
Be buried in sands of wheat
Or an ocean of daffodils
Or catch clouds in their azure kingdom
And lift wind with lifeless arms
Touch sky with tender lips
And grow stars in burnt down farms;
But nothing will, come of this quite,
No wrong that remains, shall turn right
Alone, here, in chambers
The ashes would glow
Broken pieces in an unbroken flow.
To know that a forever
Exists before me too
And to believe that a forever
Shall come after me anew
Is perhaps a gift I gave myself
Sans writing my name
( Or else I would not so wonder
At the moment of this surrender)
That my past, and what passes is the same.
Why they lament
In the cemetery;
Who have buried
Bodies in their backyard?
O how the mortal mind mock
It’s own sense of symmetry.
Where in this world
Of baffled faces; pouring oil in eyes to alight a change
Must I a man of hollow cast
Should await;
To remain unchanged
For unlike Othello I listen
To old monks murmuring beyond the riverbank
Their hands joined to a common flame
And blind eyes closed to light
So all could see the same
But my hands are not stained with grease
Nor my feet grown in the shape of keys
For doors yonder where the sunlight’s thick
And a greener pasture the old monks seek
I am here amidst the fallen hands
In its wilderness once termed divine
What thought a meager man could grate
That an oracle wouldn’t deem a sign
Of a tragedy of our own device
Build by fallen hands, without a voice
To be interred cold beneath a veil
This seminal thought, that none may feel
Where in this world
Of baffled faces; pouring oil in eyes to alight a change
Must I a man of hollow cast
Should await;
To remain unchanged
My old hands were like butterfly
Once beautiful and delicate
A million grains of imprisoned skies as
One thousand thoughts; intricate,
But what now they remember
Is only the crushing weight,
Of cold steel left to rust
And rough edges of granite slate
Till one day they tremble
Like withered wings to feel no pain
And fall asleep sans memory
In a cocoon, to be a moth again
They all left in silence
With a hope of being reborn
To wear new clothes come this time
And not washed ones already worn
Can beauty be kept alive
In a bell jar
To never wither
Are dreams; going cold today,
From tommorow any better.
Will the seeds sowed and sheltered
When flowered shall remember
The last touch; it had felt
Before being buried in September
Or the journey shall sell it all
For that chance to breath once more
To see the sun in a different light
And find it the same as before
What afterlife claim no ails
In Meadows of Asphodel
What treasures can hold the sunken ship
Which in memory never set a sail
Perhaps in some distant way
The wind must too feel
Those flower which swayed with it
And the towers that stood ever still
Only the blind man believes
In no man’s land
The rest of us
We see
Each cast away stone
As our own
Whether it never was
Or ever should be.
My great purpose
Was to wake
With the wind still blushing, under her cloak,
And feel the blades of grass break
Beneath my weight
And breathe, and breathe, till my flesh sag, and bone wither and blood turn to soup
To water once again
This cycle of rhyme
But you of quartz time
Of a world more divided than honeycomb
In psychedilic prose
And liquored lyrics of
Cowards crooning catalysts
With pink thumbs
And wide mouth still wet with milk;
Your purpose
Serves no purpose
The skin you wear feels not as your own
For the treasures you parade bought on loan
Were last held perhaps
By some Mrs Smith of Montauk
The day she died, alone in the woodwork
With the tune of the choir and the name of her Lord
Still in her head, the part of her head
That didn’t partake in the horror
But paused at it’s most beautiful
It is a world of resonating hands
For I can touch you centuries after
Through the wooden mask on your wall
Once wielded as wood
By the lumberer whose mother use to run with a friend
In the wilderness of Wyoming
Where the friend had a father
And he an aunt
Who was my first kiss, one autumn
Under the breaking cherry blossoms
Her limbs, soft silver
And sorrel eyes, tinged with tears and
Floating tenderness
Dark with youth
And thus we are no strangers
You and I
Voices in the void, a century of suns apart
But a pair amidst pairs
A tremor within tides
Remembering life as you lived
With memories of mine
And I with yours, like words yet ink
Thinking thoughts I always had, even before I could think
So perhaps I am here
Raven haired, raven eyed
Painting a still lake, with a husband by my side
And you there
In the courtyard of my autumn age
Under cherry blossoms, and a splintered moon
Kissing my love, as me
Upon a different page
Perhaps I am just a being
That hides in radios
And pretend to sing
The static from my second skin
