Letters from my German Soul 


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I should think I’m a better ghost of a poet
Than a human being, why?
We no longer share a language
I’ve become too abstract, like

How sometimes everything seems
So subjective, until I lose myself
In the dream of a body
In the hopes of a mortal life

That nonetheless anticipates ecstasy
Even when I have learned to fear pain
Trusting the moment, walking through fire

To get to some place that was
Inside myself all along
The most solid advice my soul ever gave
Was to burn my hand about the nature of fire

To live as a poet might live
But I’m, more heart than alchemy
More curiosity, than temptation

More innovator, than life-traveller
Poetry and astrology were my mother-tongues
Until I had to learn new languages
Software and smiling, to enter

The Sunday of my brief life
Dying to myself that I might
Feel the bliss of a frozen moment
That melts perfectly into the here and now.

Lyricism Wrought from pain


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And in this time, of my material poverty
I’ve come to realize an important thing
That I have no riches but my spirit
No prosperity like the kingdom of my own thoughts

The love of the universe
Trapped inside of me, so innately
Yes these must be wealth enough for me
Not friends, women, comforts, luxuries

Can compare to the range of joy
That sets its bounds of beauty upon me
In the cosmos of my heart’s secret place
I also like most all that comes

And least of all, all that goes
For change is oft too unpredictable
To draw the sunsets from my mind
Or write a golden lines that stands

As the best, of my unoriginal mind
Life is but a thought, sailing in breath
A great league of breaths that hushes
Over everything, beauty breaks the heart

In the right way, even as we
Found more joy in sorrow than
The reverse, tonight is wonderful
Tomorrow is profound, and that my dears

Is the hidden love in creativity
That the heart knows the songs
The music it must make, not me, not I, not we.

Jupiter Rising for Those Who Love 


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When I can look at life in the eyes
Of the heart, from the heart of my eyes
I see the calm of everything
The current of love beneath time

And it shall not be memory
For existence is only fresh in experience
Silent as a woman waiting for love
It’s not enough to act or listen

The world waits for the spring
And youth comes only once
In meagre compensation for biology!
I should be glad for loneliness

And hours to wonder what is divine
And a thirst body that amounts to
An empty heart to fill the jewels
Of single songs of people dear

And lovely melodies full of light
If I have loved much and been loved deeply
It is enough, enough to say
It will soon be over, on a hushed winter’s night.

fragment


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Lost Fragment of a Renaissance Poem

I have been swan-ned by a partial muse
In earliest offerings of youth’s goodbye tendencies
I sport wild flowers only in jest
To quell the dear delusive art of my faith

That people are good and that my heart
Was made to be tender, always
No matter the worldly costs
I shall not afford elegiac sonnets

Nor write at the close of spring
I speak instead from Summer’s mound
Summer’s mound of a woman’s fertility
How she celebrates her humid hands

Against the skin of the world
How she kisses poor humanity
Even when we have barely a hope
In her thoughts and smile, new urgency thrives

And the songstress rainbows stresses near
Against the weary pilgrims of our place
And garlands wild, and feasting on eyes
So alien I’d imagine them asian-elves
Belong to an ancestry of pleasing and acceptance…