I'll Live As Lovers Do

Eternal restless sleep I bring
As waking, I seek my peace.
In every corner, Death is king
Despite my failing youth.
The willful promise of my soul
Will be fulfilled, in truth,
In death or in life,
I'll fair thee well
And live as lovers do.

A Song Which Has Never Been Sung

The sun shines bright behind the frothy clouds
As from up above, the rain comes down.
The meadow is vast, and lush, and green,
The trees in the distance gently sway.
A rainbow fills the open sky.
Beneath its arc, a bird flies.
The ground is soft beneath my feet
And upon my head, thick raindrops beat.
The air is fresh, and I fill my lungs
To sing a song which has never been sung.

Fruits of Joy

The deepest, most penetrating love

Is the love that blossoms from the sweet, delicate fruits of joy.

The seeds of such fruits spring like dainty chaps upon the fresh morning dew

With eloquent pronouncements of splendor that carouse the enlightened soul.

They fill the air with divine aromas that titillate the rapturous tongue

And champion the awesome sky with glistening reflections of the sun.

The joys of life are the truths which love pronounces

When the shadows of doubt recede.

The cry of a lover filled with such joy

Is the echo of grace indeed!

For Jeremy Ramundo

In shock we stared as the young man bled,
No sign of justice, no mercy had.
The music still played from the juke-box,
An upbeat tune.
The people were drunk, but their minds were in tune.
What ails this world that a man should die
Confused, but too aware of the time?
How many tears must fall on the sacred ground
Before life is given purpose,
More than the sound
Of a gunshot ringing into the sky
And fate should have it
That honest men die?

The Two Stones

A missionary came to a farm one day
At the loneliest corner of the world
Looking to buy land to build a church.
The farmer, however, was a shrewd man,
And his price was steep.
The missionary looked upon the farmer's two sons,
Who were still young and rosy-cheeked.
From his bag he pulled two stones,
One, the color of fire,
The other, a sombre blue.
"These two stones are more valuable than all the riches of the land," he said,
"And I will give them to you."
Holding up the fire colored stone he said:
"This stone was blessed by Jesus himself.
A man had come to him in dire straits.
The stone was all he owned.
Jesus blessed the stone and said:
'This stone will bring you great wealth,
But you must never part with it,
Not for any price.'
The man bowed and took the stone.
When word had spread that Jesus had risen from the dead,
The man took the stone to a king.
The king offered all his fortune for the stone.
The man sold it, and built a vast palace
Which he filled with invaluable tapestries
Made in all four corners of the world.
One night, there was a storm.
The palace was struck by lightning.
It burned to the ground.
The man's fortune was lost.
He fell to his knees and wept.
He searched through the ashes,
And lo and behold, there was the stone.
He cried out to the heavens,
'I thank you, Lord!'
He gave the stone to a blind man,
And promised him wealth and fortune,
For the stone had been blessed by Jesus,
The King of Man.
The blind man became rich,
And gave the stone to a church.
And thus, it passed to me."
He gave the stone to the eldest son,
Who gazed at it in awe.
"This other stone," the missionary said,
Holding up the stone of sombre blue,
"Was found by John in a river
After baptizing a young boy.
He gave the stone to a dying prostitute,
And told her it would ease her passing
If she placed it over her heart.
The prostitute did as John bid her,
And her final thoughts were sweet
And she passed on in peace."
The missionary gave the younger son the stone,
And he smiled, amazed by the gift.
The two young boys held each stone in equal value,
For richness in death is equal to richness in life.
The farmer, in awe of the missionary and his gifts,
Sold the missionary a portion of his land
And there, to this very day, resides a church.

Before Writing a Poem

The air circulates through my lungs
And I await the cascading enigma.
As entranced as the circuit of time unfolding,
We dance without knowing whether space or an impingement upon space
Is collating.
After watchful hours, where dreams envelop the dark,
Only assurance and the soft seed remain.
The pain drips and I collapse
Into the echo of my father's voice.

If My Promise Should Not Be Kept

If my promise should not be kept,
And our love dwindle, and the fire go out,
Do not seek love in the arms of a stranger
Or follow the moon in drunken misery,
But seek out the garden where we met
And find the rose that blooms for you, my love.
There you will find a love so true
That the memories of me will fade like a passing dream
And all days hence will be blessed.

Corner of Telford and Ludlow

Slow night.
It's always a slow night around here.
Fat kids gallivanting.
Too much free time on their hands.
Like me.
We're all too free.
Except the Marxist.
Or so he thinks.
I'm tired of placating the Marxist.
Yes, democracy and socialism can work together fine.
Right, but only if you're president.
Sure, we aren't using the left sides of our brains.
Too much technology, he says.
Once our minds are completely lost, we won't even know it's the end of the world.
The screens will all go black, I tell him.
But before they look up, it'll be too late.
The world's gone dark, but the screens are bright.
If these beauties look my way, I swear I won't look away.
But they're not that pretty.
And I should remember what Rumi says.
What did he say again?
Ah yes, "Don't speak too long with a fool."
Here I am, speaking to myself.
Or maybe I'm not.
Maybe I'm speaking to you.
Or what's left of you after having listened to me speak for a time.
If there's a reason for my being here,
It's lost on all but me.
I'm more than half-dead
But too alive to know it.
Ask that girl.
She'll tell you.
She knows there's less than a chance at beginning something new.

To My Love the Smoker

Seeking pleasure in smoke is foolish,
But there is pleasure in the taste of your lips,
So I will put up with the smoke.
There is pleasure in finding myself enveloped by your eyes
Where I am free to dance like a wild ape in the forest.
I know you, my love.
You are that one which gives the strawberry
From your breast.
You are that one which knows my love
And keeps the secret hidden away
In the garden of your pleasure.
You ask for nothing, but oh, how I wish to give!
When I tell you of the dark place hidden in my soul,
You fill it with light
With a touch.

Forbidden Love

Mary and Isaac were born to be lovers
But they were kin, and fate would be tested.
Isaac came to Mary in a dream,
Unclothed, his manhood rose like a tower above the clouds.
Mary, in awe, climbed the tower
Till she reached the heavens beyond the stars.
There she found ecstasy beyond all imaginings.
She gazed down at Isaac and spoke:
"We are of one flesh,
Of one blood.
Can this be sin?"
"Hush," said Isaac, "Do not speak.
Fate is love, and love fate.
Love brought me to your dream,
But fate will make me leave."
He kissed her cheek, and the tower fell,
And Mary, in fear, awoke.
She arose from her bed
And went to her brother's room
And kissed him as he slept.

The Heat

This heat will not pass.

Look at the marigold.

It is blushing.

Strange how the heat makes the marigold lust.

If ever, in this heat, there is a dream that makes me wander,

It is the dream of you,

Blushing like the marigold.

I wonder, where will these lost days take us?

To the shores of oblivion

Or the breathing forests of light?

The heat is balanced on our breath,

And the long afternoon dies with an explosion of color.

The night is cool,

And the sun retraces her steps

To the other side where life yearns to be born.

The Halls of Our Fathers

Responsibly, each day, we wander through the halls of our fathers
In search of a door that leads to a lost garden
Where they say the first of our namesake is buried.
The halls are dim, the only light coming
From the tall, ornamental windows, paned with thick, opaque glass.
The walls are lined with portraits,
Some of proud, dignified men,
Others, meek in appearance,
But still to us they seem noble,
For we recognize ourselves in their features.
They whisper, it seems, urging us on in our quest,
Which has been a part of our daily ritual for years now.
The path is labyrinthine, and we have forgotten now
Which halls we have traversed.
Sometimes we wander through the middle of the night,
With a candle to light our way.
Then we hear the voices of the dead crying
And we begin to wonder if they have not also searched in vain.
Somewhere, in the garden of our forefathers,
An aged bird sings over a gravestone
Marked with our name.

Imposter

Fate has it that I should live as an imposter.
Every breath is another death for the real me.
Each time I smile the backlog of tears rises.
Each noble gesture is a violent stroke against
The wall that separates me from the world.
If I had the strength, I would break down the wall
And consume the world like a passing breeze
That has no beginning and no end
Carrying with it all my fervor and all my love.

Muse

What do you partake in, that you have the gift of giving?
Your lips, pressed close to mine, breathe words
That enchant the stars, it seems.
Like some velvet scarf floating in the wind,
You land on my face, so that I see
The world through your hue.
I dance, half blinded,
But with the ability to see
Into the velvet
Which makes you you
And me, free.

Learning

All the lessons I have learned
Compound to nights of moaning
For fortune's gain is never earned
Throughout the days of yearning.
There is no trace of fate or a promise
Among this prideful state,
Just ambition, and the pining
Of solitude's berating net.
I watch and worry, while agony waits
To crumble my wayward dreams.
The storm that panders at my door
Threatens to eradicate me.
I do not know what I will do
When the tides recede and fail,
But I think some laughter will carry me through
To the truth, which will avail.

Noble Art

Art that's noble comes from lovers,
Lovers bold and lovers true,
And all the bold and restless eyes
Are rapt upon the noble truth.
They search the sky for light divine
And watch as crimson stars divide
Into the rapid coersion of time.
They seek the hours for wellborn springs
And dance along the ambient rings
For truth, my love, they dance for truth,
And sing the light for which all men sing.
Their watchful eyes know no doom.
They are carried with laughter to the omnipresent moon.

Presence

As present as I have been in the past,
Walking through fields, gazing at flowers,
Noticing the ebullience of the hearkening day,
I wish to be more present
In your embrace, in the raptures of your kiss,
And the ever-flowing tenderness that exudes from your maritime eyes.
I wish to know at the core of my being
Every breath that moves through your enveloping body
And rejoice at each fleck of light that moves across your skin.
You are the compass to my being,
The ancient text that describes the religion of my soul.
Your promise yearns to be kept
And I forge it with the stars in the sky,
An immoveable enlightenment that bridges my yearning
To the ambrosia that is the lustrous garden of the unfathomable world.

Dawn

The sun lies noble in the East,
A bright orange orb of fire
Nestled away in the horizon
Like a rose opening for desire.
The dewy grass is weaved in gold
And shimmers in the waking light.
Tulips sprout in promenade,
Exuding their fragrant delight.
The trees are dashed with bits of yellow
As the wind brushes their hearty manes.
The clouds billow in the sky
Moving, somnambulent, as waves.
The day has arrived before my mind has adjusted
To the waking realities of life.
Still I dream as if a child
Finding grace in the wonders of night.

Carried into the Rose

That which we propagate we see

Like the spark at the tip of the tongue

Of a song or a dance which our lives depend on.

The ashes that breeze through the air

From a fire made in a lonely corner of the world

Disseminate through the passageways

Of those who wish to hear this song.

Here, the firelight bathes us

And our eyes are gilded like the breath of a dying man.

We rejoice in the knowledge that our hearts yearn for more

And time, that blanket to which we yield all our dreams

Lifts us into the rose where we may rest

And breathe deep the fragrance that carries with it

The dreams of forgotten days.

The Anxious

The anxious walk with silent step
Among the urgent crowds.
Their damning seeds they hold within
And damn the seed aloud.
Their muted breath they wish to stop
And collect the silence that abounds.
They know of no fortuitous strength
Or troubled need that hounds.
They wish to cup the supple breast
Or taste the sweetness of joyous tears.
They rectify no offset balance
And to the Messenger they deliver their fears
So that all the world might know their promise
And pay their bounty with their cries.
They steep their hands in the sinewy mold
Of a woman's anxious lies.

Should My Love Forsake Me

Should my love forsake me this night,
I would pour the sallow from my eyes.
I would wake the angels with truculent fists
And mock their smoldering cries.
The dainty waves of the tremulous sea
Would rise above the dismal truth
And plunder the ships headed for glory
Led by dreaming youths.
The diamonds of the ancient mines would shatter
Beneath my deafening step.
The albatross would fall to the sea
And the fires of the sun would scorch the Earth,
Knowing I had wept.

Upon Meeting a Friend at a Park

You arose like a demon from the hillside,

Plush, exotic, a twinkle in your eye.

You spooked me with your subdued fervor

And your grotesque amelioration of my heart’s desires.

We played that way for hours in the sultry summer day

Until you planted your foot into the ground

And declared yourself king of the hill,

A stone giant in this dull little world.

I could have torn you down that day,

First, by chopping off your feet,

Then by rolling you down into the valley

And wrapping you in dead leaves.

But I let you have your moment.

You were so self-satisfied,

And I could not hold my idiosyncrasies up to you,

Not in that light,

Not when someone could have been watching.

There was a bit of lust between us, it’s true.

And I would have kissed you, had you made the first move.

But the dissolving resonance of our conversation

Led us only to misplace our private hells for a moment

And get lost in the wild, oncoming dusk.

Woman Bathing in a Fountain

Once I followed a path through a wood
That led to an open garden
Where rows of hedges and flowers grew
Most radiant in the morning.
There in a field in a fountain pool
Where water flowed from a lion’s mouth,
I beheld a woman standing nude
Washing her body with a bar of soap.
Her eyes were darker than the cavernous seas,
And her hair was just as black.
Her body was white as the autumn moon
And her lips were crimson red.
She covered her body in lustrous green soap
And her head she held beneath the spout.
She sang a song about children playing
And her breasts were supple and taut.
She washed the space behind her knee
Bending over and gently lifting her leg.
She exposed her little delicate foot—
Her toes were painted a crimson red.
I admired the glistening light on her buttocks
Which was round and full and plump.
She washed the space between her legs
Where hair grew thick and dark.
I stood behind a tree and watched
But then the sound of children was heard.
She looked up, startled, and saw my face,
And coyly covered her private parts.
I blushed to my toes and turned away,
And made my way back through the woods.
All that day I felt a tinge of guilt,
But that night I lay in bed and smiled.
Perhaps she was a goddess, I thought,
Who had desired to experience the thrill of risk.
And since I had been the one who had caught her,
With her memory I’d be forever blessed.
And yet somehow I felt something was tarnished—
Some things are too beautiful to be seen.
A goddess washing herself in a fountain
Is a sight which no man can redeem.

The Dogs of Night

If the dogs of night bark at you as you lay in bed
Tossing and turning, trying to sleep,
Open the window and bark back.
And if the dogs of night begin to weep,
Open your window
And sing a song to make them sleep.
And if the dogs of night howl at the sky,
Open your window and look at the moon.
It is full, and bright, and you too will howl
For a lover that lies nearer than you think.

Playing Chess with a Master

Each square is a divine nuance
As perplexing as the plots we weave.
He has already seen each move
And I am lost in the fanfare of royalty.
I would have us parlay
But something about his smile says he wishes to conquer me
And perhaps he already has.
If I stand firm near my castle, will I be safe?
The crumbling stone has been wanting repair
And the stairs to the lookout are craggy and dangerous to walk on.
I am alone in the field.
These pieces have forsaken me.
Behind me is the edge of the board
And it would be so easy to walk off.
Let them fight for the queen.
She has spirit left.
But there, directly across,
Is the lord of the adjacent land.
He too has grown weary of battle
But he knows that his victory is at hand.
I nod to him
And he nods back.
I grip my sword
And shout out my command.

The Yearning Soul

If you could not open your heart
To accept my love
For fear of losing it forever,
I cannot blame you
For shattering my hopes
And turning a blind eye
To my misery.
That which we pity we love,
And we mostly love ourselves.
I cannot blame you for turning a blind eye.
When a soul has too much yearning,
It becomes too bright,
Like the sun in the midday sky.

Clifton Fountain

Fair copper maiden of the dance,
Arms outstretched in supple repose,
Your chin is raised and you face the sky,
A prayer for rain upon your lips.

In one hand you hold a copper lily,
The other is gently down-turned.
Your hair falls as a mass of leaves behind you,
Your torso and breasts are firm.

You are covered in coiling flowered ivy,
The only clothes that your maker bequeathed.
You stand in contrapose upon pillar-legs,
An ionic capital at your knee.

Your hip is also a capital,
And your foot is raised as you twirl.
The planted foot is a staircase
That sits upon a tortoise shell.

The tortoise swims in an asphalt sea,
And, like you, is waiting for Spring to arrive.
Spring brings spouts of water
On which your splendor thrives.

Soon, fair maiden, the season will change,
And water will frame you in resplendence.
The people will stop at the corner to see
As your soul burgeons in the dance.

Tzedakah

I walk alone down a dark and foggy street at night,
Following the impingement of my own contaminated soul.
Up ahead, the silhouette of a man,
Consumed by his own shadow.
It is regal and horrendously giant, an opaque simulacrum.
I am swaying in the delirium of psychotropic salutation,
Manifesting theories of my own downfall
At the expense of eroticism.
Like, what if the man were my landlord?
Or rather my shadow self
Out for vengeance
For my having repressed him.
I light a cigarette.
The wrathful pall is lifted
And my heels are teased.
The electric wires are like eels—
They hum and swim into the foggy gloom.
Anemia of the low pulse brings me down
And I am certainly delusional.
The laughter of impertinent clowns from an alleyway
Recalls me to my shortcomings,
Both as an object of lust and as a clown.
A dog standing outside of a house, snarling and seedy,
Stares me down.
I stare back, breaking the torpor with assiduity,
And I smile.
Strangely, he smiles back.
I offer him a drag on my cigarette,
And he comes over, tail wagging, and takes a puff.
He exhales the smoke like an old pro.
I pet him till he runs off.
Man’s best friend, there he goes.
I pass a camera shop.
It is full of voyeuristic ghosts
With too much time on their hands.
The cameras flash as I pass.
I am a celebrity among the ghosts.
I keep walking, step on a crack, and curse society.
A baby cries, awakening me to the redundancy of my own needs.
Money, I think.
Money.
The local businesses need my money,
As do the whores and the wayfarers.
There’s the crack house.
The people in there need my money, too.
But I dare not enter.
Theair is too intoxicating.
The fog sits on the city’s back
Like the pack of a vagabond,
And the city is afloat,
Drifting towards some madman’s nightmare.
I look up at the moon,
Which, behind the fog, is hazy, and full,
Like a bastion of serenity
Above the sedated world.
I watch the man,
Who is close now,
And still featureless,
And I find myself ready to clash like a kamikaze
Into his barrel chest.
Perhaps he’ll embrace me.
Then, I can weep.
But now I see him, his features in the lamplight.
He’s a dignified man with bright, friendly eyes.
Too friendly and dignified for me.
I’d rather he were a pimp.
We nod at each other
And the fog breaks violently around the shoulder of his coat,
And sneaks back towards him from behind,
As does my gaze.
Smoke from my mouth drifts into the haze
And I face forward and carry on,
Alert to the hum of the electric wires.
Money, I think.
Money in my pockets.
I’ve got to give it away.
I’ve got to give it away.

A Child Born to Happiness

A child born to happiness
Like a wave upon a shore of gold,
I stretched for all the mysteries of the world,
But alas,
As the sea does flow
So does it ebb,
And back and back I rolled.
Now I wait in the dark caverns of the sea
For the tide to bring me back
To the shore where the light of the sun does glisten
And together lovers laugh.

Violet Dusk

It is dusk, and a violet fog covers earth and sky.
The lights—orange and spiraling—are beacons
That call for life      
And more life
Before the waking hour of man dies.
The dark hill in the distance beckons
Like a mad prophet sanctimoniously crying across the sky,
“Be with me, friends, as I search for the light of God!”
I am waiting for the wreckage of night to fall
And leave the map of stars behind.
In those stars I will find some truth to this life.
But now all is hidden behind a veil of tears,
Which only the starlight can make fall.
I am waiting for the steaming sadness to lift
And the night to heed my call.