Sweet Spirit

At night, the stairs of this old house creaks Whispering to me, sweet spirit sleeping soundly during the night. The shadow movements, the fluid dance of a candles flame Dances in our room like the Northern Lights I take your hand, wrapping my legs around yours, It is what night time soul vines do, Coiling around the warmth, finding the placement of the sun. Should I be praying? Your hand on my back, face to face. Should we soar a little higher? During our dreams and back to reality Passing the sands of time and endless oceans I repeat to myself. I don’t want to wake, I don’t want to wake.

30

Time did not stand still It shaped its road for us to leave the past To rain soaked pavements, fallen leaves, high altitudes underneath the snow To drinking tea in the morning, to the smell of books, your scent and smile There was no mistake for me to come to you You have captured the stories that were written in stone Lost voyages and high shadows made of glass You are all I dream with the dawning of spring.

Coat of Many Arms

During the summer when the warm winds blow In an instant rapture comes instant sorrow At 3:00 am I am awakening by your ghost Your breath and your voice in my ear It is ecstasy and torture, no lover of mine At 8:00 am the day begins And in the song of the sparrow and crow I feel your hands upon my hips Gliding towards the passage that you only know Around 4:00 pm after tea I understand the feeling of being lost The stories of towers, fair maidens and dragons Of being conquered and subtle exposure to fresh water

Temple

Placed in a hole, I’m waiting for a beacon to shine its light upon my hand. To look at you straight into eyes, cast down up cement memories. Black harp and morning doves, I keep this silence of mine together. In case any whispering become voices, they heard right. Sanctuary is the temple I seek from your lips.

Unknown

Half monsters awake with the dawn, painted lips and drawn faces Scooting by on a fraction of a second. The time of need sees false land and conquers. It breeds till the years are filled and the last of the water taken. children drown from the lack of air. It is hope for all who look up, or those who look down, both depths hold mysteries.

Remind

He told me I would always remind him of autumn. The way the leaves turned, the line between decaying leaves and cool breezes, the way the fog rolls over the roof tops. “You are not so independent when the air turns cold”, He said. You seek the comfort of warmth to see what might unfold. Gustav Klimt

Photographic Mind

He said lose the photographic mind, Let those images swirl into imagination and break free. Those who take their photos have the memory on disk and paper. But will they remember it when the fires no longer keep them warm? Does it matter when we cherish all that comes during our time? The old papers turn yellow and crumble at the touch. I don’t mind when the sun sets or when the sun rises. It bleeds into one.