Friday, September 12, 2014
Friday, May 30, 2014
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 of fresh water
Monday, March 24, 2014
Placed in a hole, I’m waiting for a beacon to shine its light upon my hand. To look at you straight on my eyes are 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.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Why so safe in your cage? Where the cats can’t claw at your face and thighs Why not flap your wings and move around, brass bridges of sorrow You have become. Why in the moment of passion, you rip into your own flesh and feel no pleasure. Does the song disgust you? Drizzle mumblings of dark stares into bedroom corners.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Half monsters awake with the dawn, painted lips and drawn faces, scooting by on a fraction of a second. This time of need sees false land and conquers the last of the mountains. It breeds till the years are filled and the last of the water children drown from lack of air. But is it hope for all who look up or those who look down, both depths hold mysteries.
Monday, October 14, 2013
He told me I would always remind him of autumn. The way the leaves turn, the 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 and stop to see what might unfold.
Monday, July 29, 2013
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 becomes bleeding into one.