This Possession of a Life

I am waiting for a feast that never came
It never arrived and I’m sick of waiting
I’ve been so patient my entire life
Loving a thing that was never meant to come
* * *
It kept me hoping that things might get better
A house of windows, a reply to a heart-felt letter
Never read, a vision never truly disappearing
Of what we thought was the meaning of our lives
* * *
The feast that I am waiting for is impossible
Our masks postpone it indefinitely
Empathy is imperfect and desire leads us astray
And I never was very good at finding common ground
* * *
It’s below zero and the chalk of my poems has run dry
For a good few more than months or years
All the celebration in me has died like an old flower
Into stains of history and a corrupted Earth
* * *
We burn ourselves up in our brief conquest of life
Like a lover, we squeeze every ecstasy from their
Shuddering bodies, every last drop of intensity
We beg for something so totally fulfilling
* * *
But the feast was always a product of our minds
The prize was only a figment of our imagination
The union and sex and spiritual rapture only petty symbols
Of all a human being can do or feel or have.

Solar Storm

 

Solar Eclipse, how everything changes when you come
I can feel in my bones the disintegration of the past
I, who love too much and too easily the rebels
The arts; the ruins of my creative drives

Abandoned I lurk in a passage to the future
I have no deep friends, no truth in my own eyes
Only the battle of the brain, this misguided heart
That seeks and wishes for stories I never find

Solar Eclipse, how you burn me to the core
I, who have only been a humble servant of the sun
How many lives mush I endure the madness?
How many misunderstandings in my soul?

Brittle light, do you not know how poor I am?
That I die of loneliness each and every day
Like a poet lost in the light, trapped on Earth
If suicide calls me, then will I be home?

Storm-flowers of the sun, give your dagger looks
I, who have suffered already more than you can imagine
Displaced, weak, vulnerable, cowardly
For a few days of magic I sacrificed already so much

August 21st, I can feel your approach
Like a zombie apocalypse on my Venus degrees
There’s heartache in your absence, but only I would know
I who look up at the sun for her designs

I who felt her swimming in my brain like a leopard
I worshipped at the temple of her Art, like no other
Lost in the bewildered shadows of her aches
I know my time was illegitimate, hours and minutes

Like the spiritual thirst for another season
Another era of the heart, that does not exist in this reality
Troubled soul, why do you run and push and wine
When the truth of our being sets us free

In the cold climax of extreme heat, that only a few
Will ever dare to touch that side of us.

 

 

The Last Comfort

I want to hear the child within speak again

The long lost language of flowers and stars

The future that is the ancient past

The whisper that is the tranquil now

 

I do not seek material things, but lift

Lift the veil of the whisper of the wind

Beneath the silence that all things return

Time is a silver slice of breeze in Spring

 

The world doesn’t require us to be anything

But how the cosmos moves us from within

I want to know the verses of tomorrow

Whose pale light will linger like a muted trombone

 

Into the night’s treachery of existence

Where the choices are made that guide our ever-afters

There are no subtle songs of the forest life

Only the make-believe of men and his bots

 

There are no solutions left to the problems we’ll create

Because we are the great trouble-makers in the galaxy

I want to hear the soul’s trembling voice who rarely speaks

That glimmer of the unknown blessedness kept deep within

 

That does not flight or suffer from these mortal wounds

Or have a need for answers in history’s definate touch

That was not so all-defining after all, just another story

Lost to the light of a billion suns.

Of It I can Say Nothing

 

 

 

Be here, by me

I who have been in love alone

Yoking the voice of listening itself

Where to pray is a kind of cherishing

Be here by me

 

I can say nothing no more

Of what it means to live

Each has their own eternity

To grieve, and brief moments to rejoice

Where a delicate fire is translated

 

Of the human condition’s reach

Be here, by me

Where time hangs – and I write

Words more naked than the flesh

Than the vulnerability of hours

 

That smite the dreams of youth

Be here, by me

I cry out to you, again

You who cared not that I sought to hear

Your emotions incommunicable

 

Be here, by me,

From aching care, to invisible language

And for what it means to be a friend

To witness the stories of lost souls

What cannot be said, will be wept

 

Like the smothered dreams of

All that is forgotten, death

The last blanket on our eyes.

 

 

Motif Without a Name

 

 

Xiao Wei, sometimes I think the life I lead is a lie

And there is nobody I can tell

Everywhere I go I am just another anonymous figure

Tell me, how did it get this way?

 

To be a man is a lonely road

That sometimes leads to no woman

No home, no hearth, no tribe, no faith

And what I once thought was righteous

 

No longer seems just or a cause of becoming

For in the end we are just a lifestyle

We are just a bombshell translated

Into someone contemporary, there’s no singular

 

We are the spirit of history reacting

A fate that can be so tender, so weak

Xiao Wei, in your strength I find homage

Even If I will never taste your food

 

I can run as fast as a rabbit through the forest

Having no destination to whom can I turn?

 

Author’s note:

I should be pleased if you follow me here:

Perfectly Red #amwriting #erotic #NaPoWriMo #AppreciateAnAuthor

Perfectly Red

What if I were to tell you,
I am profoundly enchanted
By the flowing complexity in you
Would you believe me, that I have read
You like a novel, dove into your skin

Your diaries I’ve taken into my heart
Move me, may I be the one to
Unlace your secrets down your spine
Hitching up your skirt to straddle your mind
They saw the brain is the most erotic organ

In ways you are but and will remain a stranger
Like a seed I will never sow
And with lips I am yet to ever kiss
With eyes that have not met in a flood
Of these lingering touches I’ve never known

What if I am aroused by your
Labour of scripture, your tyranny of ambition
When it comes to authors, they are not
Required to be naked in bed to make love
All it takes are the tools of

Our minds writing letters at an uncontrollable pace
But I suspect, you like to pull close
Then dart away, breathing in short bursts
In anticipation of the next melting
Where you are perfection and I am

Always slightly ready, with mouth of wonder slightly open
And heart turned wet in a stranger’s kiss.

Addiction 탐닉

Addiction 탐닉

I am addicted to the sound
You make in my mind
My ball of fire, my branded rite
My April fire-cracker

The cranberry tears of holding
Onto something so dear
It’s a dream I had, but it’s
Other lives who will lead it

Spring has returned with Vengeance
And I am green, and
Everything is about to bloom
Two solitudes sing in me

Recklessly like colors at their core
And I’m an unbelievable shrieking
Of heart into the naked night
I’m the lyricism of miracles

Laying low, bowing low, being humble
All the soaring of my mind
Beings in my blood like lion’s breath
As if everything terrible that happens to us

Is in its own strange sense, something
Helpless that wants help from us
I’m addicted to the purr of the wind
The whispers that you are near

And temptation as raw as the rain
Everything in me is feminine when
The secret thing in poetry is revealed to me
The only journey is within

The only now is internal
The only event is the silence that resides in your soul
And if your daily life appears at times poor
Blame yourself that you are not poet enough

Not brave enough to love enough
For one human being to love another
Is the only thing truly worth being addicted to.

Titled Below

Like words never wholly kissed

We played our words for keeps
Aware fully of how ephemeral
They make vowels these days

Sheep, that flood the ether
The best gestures o f
The brain went unread

And the most talented beauty
Were paragraphs unpublished
I think there is no parenthesis, love

Alphabets are ruined by the internet
Poetry lives on trapped
In the syntax of the human heart

Who will never wholly kiss you
Or find the meaning behind
The trapped sentences of our lives

And these thoughts that do repeat
We played our words for keeps
Bitter for not having more

Beauty to offer, and to share
Love made our eyelids all aflutter
But innocence died

While the spring of the world
Invented a more holistic verb
To express not what was lost

But what was gained by
The new verge, enchanted vocabulary.

Montreal, The Ruined City

These cities they smell
Of advertisement, new degrees
Of invasions of privacy
The flashing lights

Do not complete me
The anonymous crowds
Do not seem reasonable
These cities they

Have forgotten how to smile
I am alone in them
While surrounded by
People on their mobile outlets

Each connected to their
Private reality, which is artificial
They click ‘like’ on an
Imaginary event, a poor distraction

For living, and I realize
I am impoverished socially by this
The augmented reality is
Digital, and I could be anywhere

But do I want to be here?
In a culture, that refuses
To speak the common tongue
English, in a city with a poor economy

These cities they seem to be
Getting more impoverished
As the decades celebrate
Cheap technological progress
And the provincial politics
Of the human condition continues.

Dirty Gold

I wrote a book of questions
For you, before you left
Until every event in my life
Became a metaphor for poetry
Is the lamp of my happiness
Tattooed on your skin?
Is my heart so dependent

That the night and day
Are prisoners to its food?
I wrote a book of questions
For the little moments of gratitude
And how the roots of my soul
Must climb towards the light?
I do not know how to live alone

Is it always the same spring
Who revives the role?
Experience does not bring answers
She brings sweet uncertainty
Between the orchids and the wheat
Which does love favour?

A woman likes security
That’s right…

We Write

To write is not to presume creativity
To write is not to add something
But to take away, to cleanse
To dispense with the enormous

Personalization which is an error
Of an unnetworked brain
Men commit monstrous acts
In the hopes of becoming great

But to write is the most human act
Since language is our Tao and birthright
To live in harmony as an author
Means to write from the perfect

Symmetry of your soul, since
That is instinctive, move with its
Effortless flow, understanding is not

Righteous, it’s a perspective of dominance
Humility requires to let go of intellectual ego
And to empathize on a more fundamental level.

Self-Portrait of a Poet

I wish I was twenty and in love with life
And still wanted to change
To change the world
Inwards, old brain!

Who has the heart of a universe
There is no adversity
Only the opportunities
Given by evolution

Roses and blooming
For those who see God
In created things
I wish I was twenty and

So ready to make a self-portrait
That had dreams beyond ambition
And still wanted to love
The goodness of this world

Onwards, fantastic spirit!
We have lives for this yet
And hours, and days, and years.

A Civil Nakedness of Poetry

Poetry is the x of music
The hum under the Sea
Too exactly the wind
A dirty silence of the stars
Poetry is not what we say
To ourselves but to the nature
Of syllables behind speech
From the floor of philosophy
Where feeling is her own author
Poetry is not for particulars
But for universals, an elegy
To the creation of sound that
Had a human voice or felt
Vulnerable and ready to dream
For the imitations of better realities.

As you strode deeper into the world

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
~ Mary Oliver

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Horse-475589992

As you strode deeper into the world

One day you finally knew
The journey had ended where
It had begun, the voices soft
Lifted you to trembling with joy
A grace became your whole house

You were moved, divided
And put together again
Your soul kept crying raining joy
It was delight you knew, that you had
Forgotten, long since you were a child

Joy that has no purposes but to live
Observe, remark, joke to yourself
These were your foundations returned
Your memory wrapped everything
In a calm embrace, like branches and stones

You were a part of this all, energy
Came from one place and was moved
Here or there, but the world you loved
Well, it would go on, it wasn’t so much
A worry of yours anymore, little by little

Love became the silent prayers
Of your steps, until you no longer
Could exist, would exist, no more
One day you finally recognized your purpose
It was then you kept company

With death in that strange surreal space
Between Summer and Autumn when
You saved yourself, you finally did just do that.

Flutes of Light

we’ve retold the stories
of our lives like prehistory
so many times we forgot the white morning

or the gulls that drove us
to listen to traces of infinity
we become our own museums
sort of broken accounts of what

happened to us, a thousand photos later
we still can’t tell you the truth
about ourselves, that’s second-guessing

or the lack of objectivity with self
the sun leans low on the trees
of our youth, it passes faster
than you can name your old favorite songs

driving home, the moon draws close
we left our city lights, hoping
to become somebody we could respect

i love’ed you all day, all days
and felt the intimate street lights
bathe me against all my worries
which seem in retrospect, a bit petty

heat won’t leave the pavement
until night is almost over
and we’ll do it over all again

for the last freeway of summer
for leaving all the lights on
just to see you from the corner of my eyes.

Nevertheless-es

people came from all lover
to consult me about love
their relationship stories

I swallowed eagerly, like a poet
I made no choice
I decided nothing
my days were liquid sky

unaccountable water of drunk stars
I was the last muted syllable
of sunsets, and proud as words

words that decided nothing
words that dreampt of nevertheless-es
the food people demand for the journey
is simple, a little recognition

for their skinny-ribbed suffering
people came from all over
to read me like an oracle

their eyes pried on my soul
my spirit a spy of the world.

LOWS BETWEEN MANUSCRIPTS

I have written to the heart in you
Re-wrote it several times
Read it to you while you were sleeping
In whisper, free-form, without rhymes

I have spoken to the silence
That you put under your pillow
The easy dreams of zero heartbreak
In a world of such little gains

I have decided to honestly gift you
Entire poems to remember pain
It’s all backwards since we became artists
At the center of my life, I Forget my own names

I have written to the soul for you
Our soul, the one soul, the truth cannot stop
Just because one voice dies
Our manner of speaking changes

With the times, I’m sick of saying
The same thing, reading the same poem
There’s nobody as sick of themselves as me
Because I wanted an end to language

I become sick of duality
So I have written to the spirit in thee
In exchange, I will opt for a shorter life
One with tragedies that can potentially teach
Poems from obscurity, of absurdity, for posterity.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Writing-Owl-188040299

THROUGH SNARLING HAILS OF MELODY

I

Dear poet, with lost morning’s eyes
Don’t churn too much beneath
Stranger skies, I know you explore
The Sun’s tipped wet stones
With derelict markings for your
Blinded guests, dear poet don’t

II

Harvest beauty too colossal
That this world looks ugly
Don’t mine secrets so subjective
That shift as bright virtual dungeons
The solstice calls you, and I feel
An epic dialogue remains in your Heart
Hidden and partly unsearchable

III

You to whom I can only know
In your writing, whose date is limitless
Ancient with yearning, dear poet
Priestess of the imaged Word
Unfolding floating islands of light
Don’t weep with the hieroglyphics
Of the daunting night, but unbetrayable

IV

Reply to the future’s day, Farewell
To the new amazements born of other minds
A metallic paradise could never reveal
Your incandescent nuances of naked whispers
That fresh with faith renew our intricate parts
Dear poet, your throat is the bridge
Across lifetimes of the gardened skies.

DIVING INTO THE POETIC WRECK

i

This is the place
The thing I came for:
A moment of the pause of poetry
Where life melts into meaning
Barely objective, the subjective-myth
The tentative haunter of my spirit
Who circles me silently in the night
While I sleep, the eyes
From which I shall return

ii

This is the place
The cowardice of courage
A half-destroyed instrument of soul-sense
A freedom in failure
I came to explore the wreck
Of the human condition
To taste things for myself
Slowly along the flanks of hidden treasures

iii

It pumps my blood with power and chi
The kind of oxygen charged with blue light
That sends the author in me some hope
That I may write questions worth asking
I have to learn alone
I have a lot of work to do.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Just-a-perfect-day-292908195

COMFORT IN THE IDEA OF GOD OR GOOD

i

Beginning my studies on the first world
Which I had been born, I looked to you
To teach me and greet me with Love

ii

That famous biography we both read
The Truth, of evolution and beginnings
God wasn’t something that came
To our minds naturally, we believed we believed

iii

In Him, like so many other artificial
Dead clarities, fictions invented by men
Like the need for war, dominance, superiority, patriotism

iv

I gave in to sense, to the consciousness in forms
To eyesight, appreciation of beauty
Imagination with music, hearing faith

v

In the sound of the rain, or the
Faint clues of why we had been born
So recently, into such a Chaotic order

vi

These objects of reward, and punishment were
Primal, the dopamine-switch inherently misguided
Anarchic, appearing at intervals of pleasure
The signal of ecstatic songs, the faces preferred
It all seemed a breach of our inherent liberty

vii

The idea that we were free, attachment was necessarily
A device of the character, the role, the animal
Not the soul or anything particularly noteworthy.

COULD I BUT RIDE INFINITY

i

My portion for the day
Is defeat, a taste of poverty
Paler luck I guess than Victory
Whatever that means, whatever
Will be, will be; only love keeps me going
Slower than, so many years ago

ii

I live for scraps of prayers
And napkins for an invisible muse
Nicknamed ‘soul’ by God
I’ll give up God for Eternity
For quiet hope has fewer bells
And faith must realize the self
In whatever circumstance one finds it

iii

My portion of the day
Is empathy’s brief appointment
Before everyone disappears
To follow their respective fates
An altitude of change, goodbyes, death
Never mind repose, it meets you at the door.

A SOUL WEARING SKIN

i

A ribbon at a time
Impermanence takes us away
From the amethysts of memory
And the singleness of personality
Repairing everywhere
Love blooms without condition
With the design of evolution’s
Enterprise, who can miss her?

ii

A Sunlit cloud at a time
The days rush with golden hours
For progress, expansion, finally to decay
An inch of the Season at a time
That quivers in purpose’s circumference
Our audience is to idleness
As a disdained sky to the sunset

iii

Of our lives, where did it go?
Where did it go, it went
To the strangest sea, to the crumbs
Of all we built, how we travelled
A soul wearing skin for a while.

SELF

Little self, do I hold yourself dearest?
Hi self, have I watched you carefully enough –
I know you have moments of

Wisdom, so keep watching yourself
Know thyself, it is a matter
Of Loving others, that we might
Be taught by the world a bit easier….

If a person holds themselves dear
It means to let ourselves be guided
Shaped by the world in which we were born
So I will study the wrongs I have done

I have myself, to oneself, compassion not always given
For in the self, there are no enemies, no actual
Misfortunes, learning is beneficial and good

Loving is not a very difficult thing to do
Little self, what wrong ideas have you
Been following lately, what humility lacking?

What bravery forgotten: the wise should be
Watchful of themselves, and smile
For what is a self to do but suffer eloquently?

Be always attentive to the duty
To be self-compassionate, it’s a lesson
For the experienced, for the generous selves.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Casual-East-meets-West-454252336

PARADISE DIGESTED FULLY

i

I slept on you like a bent finger
With the world’s love against me
I was the finger-length of all love
All innovation and ascended
To a dream-interpretation of
The ultimate lucid content

ii

I shone with you like I had never before –
Attending to life without theory
Without unnecessary belief
Our sentiments were the act of sharing
So close a bond we offered Life
Like guests, the tapestry of
Our private collection of treasures
These valentine-faces, and beautifully generous

iii

We stood in dimensions without
Grief, regret or anger: not a trace
We shuffled into Spring with threaded
Kindness, inconspicuous endurance

iv

Loving the blind journey as one guards
A white shadow of protection
Our lives served a White Sun
Of a benevolent Garden of Gifts
Our only Tree of Knowledge were
The last fruits of compassion
At the end of all existence.

INTO CREATION

i

I heard a poem in my mind
Forceful, lyrical, weary –
The honest trial of the literary sublime

Made fertile by writing’s play
God’s desires in natural phrase
The Divine word resounded indeed

Rebuilt, refreshed, released
From the past, I heard
The future’s signature here
Inspiration’s subjective pursuit
Into timelessness, rapture’s dopamine-surge

ii

I heard a quotation in my mind
Established, reborn, renouncing –
The sublimation of everything

Making delight out of defeat
The simplest leisure of a thinking thing
To make a living from boundless pride

iii

To surrender lengthened life for
The genius of an artistic moment
The last resort, the poetic need
A chosen treasure, a soft aptitude
To praise the passing of a peaceful mood.

BLOOD FAULTLESSLY APPROACHED REDEMPTION

You might as well wave to
Fire and Flower, to sun and alter
The passing dazzle of seasons
Well, the years are catching up with you
Time is shooting star-petals across
Your mind’s eye, secure for
A Diamond stare, astounding generations
There is no slowing of progress
An artificial intelligence permutes
The feel of the future, so –
Will we organics one day be
Fuel to the legends of the extinct?
Must not all creatures one day perish?
You might as well wave to
Ocean and Paradigm, to the world
We leave behind is already gone
Life well, it changed you in a heartbeat
With an orange core, you have
Overtaken the memory of yourself.

NEUROPLASTICITY

These metaphors they are not me
These Syllables they are not I
A poor representation of my last wishes
A silly image of my mind’s eye
Language she, is a ponderous house
Of education and culture
Speak loving words to me then!
That has nothing to do with guilt
Or anything of the disorder of the world
Dress her in innocence and heretic
Simplicity, not seeking profit
But only durable as a final
Translation of the spirit
That Reincarnates with every generation
Enlisted in the fantasy of
Immortality, I hear her charitable words
There, as the silver dew of every
New morning, as the sister-star’s breath
Of every new millennia, where
We ask the same questions
Until we forget to ask questions
Or do not care any longer for the replies
Of the feeling of our neuroplasticity.

LIKE INTIMATE POLLEN

I need the light of your Energy
The ceiling of my heart listens
To your words, devouring hope

Each day I soak up your faith
Like a candle listening to leafless rain
And my windows ache

For your lovely Dawn
And I feel your breeze
On my skin like feather-kisses

There is not a drop of hate anymore
For life is the fire of peace
It burns like a heart moving into

The cold, my blood circulates
Around your soul, like a life
Ready to be born, conquering the world
An ancient way of being and believing.

THE SLEEPERS

There is no map of trees Just as
There is no History of lifetimes
We are ‘free’ to experience here
The French window ajar
Another restless rainy day!
Let the silver dew rise
Let the white mists roll
Let them say what they will –
There is no height like Eyes
No soulfulness like, pure kindness
We are sleepers some of us
Should we forget to sleep through
The years, of mornings and afternoons
There is no replay button, no reset
Only the silence after dreaming.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-451918526

THE COLOR OF DREAMS

We were Sculptors when we lived
When we were alive, we Perceived
Beauty palpable as air, striving as water
Mutable were our art-forms
We loved as if there were no Tomorrow
Weighty, with visions of wisdom
In our Body, we gave ourselves to Nature
Totally, hands moving like Priests
In flesh, in bronze, in wood, in stone
Embroidering our love for the World
Again and again, as if that was all that mattered
Making music, from points of Eden
Writing pristine alphabets of significant
Hellos and goodbyes, all meeting each other
This hid our extreme fragility following
The new moon’s curves, down to her epiphanies
That all Diminish, or goes insane attempting
To reach Divinity, eyes the color of dreams.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-451862555