POETRY: III

I know you are reading this poem
Toward a new kind of love
That filled you last night from somewhere
You cannot name, it’s source

The latitude of rush-hours where
Revelation comes, who knows why
The bedclothes of our last
Tattered garments of faith

Towards a new kind of breath
Your life has never allowed
That speaks of volumes of flight
Before the alphabet of precious

Dedication of some philosophical flowering
The enormous sense of being more
Than what our lives seems, as pure
As early spring days covered in doubt

A good kind of anticipation for
Beauty, health, renewal, the touch
And the thirst to live, like reading
A poem silently in our open minds.

A FAIRER PERSON LOST NOT HEAVEN

I remember landscapes of vanished whims
Dreamy artifices of twisted Bronze
Wishes of creamy abandoned doves
Balconies of stone sculptures

I remember gardens of younger games
Flowers where I left half my heart
Evenings that celebrated the Sun’s wild embrace
From dawn to dusk with cinnamon-trails

I remember drifting catalogs of candles
For festivals I can no longer name
I remember sins for which they
Cast out angels, fallen to be sure –

Stern to forgive warriors, only doing
What they were told, I remember
Sweet and outrageous ideals, ideas, proclamations
All to afford the luxury of a better future

I remember friends with tongues of gold
Whose sophistry was altogether too charming
And how those gilded trees melted into
The green and white perfection of Spring.