The Final Writing Brought me Peace


I have had my dream like others
Born of poetry and poverty
Dreaming with the weight of body
Living with love’s open-cares

I have had my dream with infinity
Caressed by strange rumors in my brain
When I am alone, I wait for writing
The air is cool inside my throat
I have had my dream on doorsteps
Of Mandarin idioms and Sanskrit prayers
I have wrote a mysticsm full of my own
Odes to the Cosmos, tripped up my heels

I have had my dream of reincarnations
Triumphant over the most beautiful sorrows
The tragedies were there to teach us
Like a poem with obvious imperfections

We loved and wrote because
We wanted to grow more stupid and peaceful
I have had my dream like other writers
Like an archer in flight, a swan in gleaming
The courageous arrows, gold against the blue.

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My Rooms of Poems will Receive Me


Slowly swayed were our little truths
The rinse of poems on a stretched out youth
Shimmering they left us bare
With Epitaphs for semantics

The final language of high tendrils
That swayed and sung
Of little things on the wood’s edge
And triumph amid

The warm summer air
The quiet doorway where we grew
From a broken house into true light
Firm between stones of artistry
What were we but the thoughts we made
The poems we wrote etched our
Entire biographies, as if the elected
Voice of the day, something to keep

A light-hearted author alive
Faith to point to burning greens
That would never die, Agh, with white flowers
Whose pollen would mix with the stars

Slowly swayed were our little truths
That redfaced love of younger years
It brought us clean vocabulary
Of all that time left undone

And polished our lips for stanzas
Sonnets of the moist black soil
Of our clutch on sentience, dearly trodden
The few words our lives would leave.
The few homes of moments gone unread.

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So Nicely Timed Were Certain Wave Summit Poems

Sleepless, slow and quick
Silent and composing the writing begins
A sort of song, waves on the wick
Of a lifetime of waiting
To write, flowers that split
Afternoons into sections of beauty
Words that snake, beneath time
Sleepless, quiet and ready to strike
The vocabulary buried for a lifetime
A sort of fate to write as a poem
That invents itself and never ends
A lullaby of boulevards chosen
From the years of student-poverty.