If Loving is Destiny

These poems mine, created early
Are nothing but the soft sense of gratitude
To life, what offered us so much!
If we took her for granted

Let it be known, that I’m drenched in dream
That I hadn’t known of your art yet, Hae.mi
I hadn’t felt your little joys
As a kind of graceful thunder

In my world of watching the eyes
Of human beings doing what they do
These poems mine, are reflections of nature
That drop from fountains like

Our toes wet in the dew, this living
Is so beautiful, even without possession
The feelings melt into a cohesive whole
Integrity with identity, wishing with hope

Touching briefly as light upon branches
Making love with a spiritual connection
The poems, on youth and ruin, are fading now…
I am nothing but a spy upon your divinity

Set in your beauty, hungry for your soul
Ready to deeply bury myself in your goodness
With the water and bread, with you as the last drop of honey
These poems mine, they just whisper

And there’s no grave to them, only endings
I’m talented in endings, as I am a decoration
For the muses, to life and all that we can never touch.

 

Photo Courtesy.

White Horse in a Black Storm

I am aroused by your happiness, he said

To the woman in the torn jeans greeting babies

On the northern most tip of hope, she sprang

 

 

To life, like a cat in motion beneath the yellow-combed leaves

It was an eventful day, where a lady might become President

But he could only feel the electric current

 

 

Like warm bread rising for Hae.mi, a flood of fascination

Turning exquisite costumes of Autumn, undressing them

In the mouth of faith, that can only taste one thing!

 

 

The ocean memory of hair dishevel, salty lips

I’m aroused by the way you walk, your addicting optimism

Your platonic truth, bursting through like liquid laughter

 

 

Breaking down barriers with charm, skipping over awkwardness

And burrying into the self-forgetfulness of intimacy

I’m so hungry for you, I’d let the white arrow run through me

 

 

As I prime the memory of your future with your own goodness

Silence prefers the passion of shadows today

The mischief of delight walking naked in your eyes.

For you

 

I have craved the taste of your skin
For what feels like centuries, and I am
The evolutionary urge of sunbeams permeating
Soul and brain and movement
I am human being, hungry for immortality

Your lovely body is my youth’s rite
I pace hungry for the cherishing of a lifetime
Your hot heart, nearly too precious to hold
How can I serve you better, my dear?
I have worked starving just to have you

By my side, for a few mortal years
And I am a puma on the barren of
The rough anonymity that separates our lives
I’ve been a hunter and a digital firebird
Just to get a few inches closer to your life
I have desired through life-plans of ambition

And I have been silent to the failures
That must be endure, just for a few moments of bliss
I have felt the light that rises in your smile
And in your delicate form, I have felt

The lessons of history and sacrifice
The language of aroma, the stuff of hope.

I Loved the Illusion

The only legend I have ever
Truly and sincerely loved
For the span of my lifetime
Is the future, like the story
My metaphoric daughter would grow

Up to see, I would prepare
An environment for her of strange consonants
And hope the world delivered her
To some kind of star-lit narrative
Worth living, empowering, fully alive

And the best thing about the legend is
Is I can practice it anywhere, at any time
Hope is for a better future, where and when
Time does not own us and profit is not mandatory
And we are not slaves to an outdated system

But whitebeams, creative and free
In the glowing night, waiting for the stars
To show themselves after winter
And, I’ve waited all these years
I will say nothing significant until then

Poetry begins where language communes
With the shadows and rare software that
Can encapsulate the meaning of a person’s life
We who have sleepwalked this world
Long enough, know our place

Our brief conviction of desire were hardly
Stepping stones for others, though
I loved the illusion and the sense
That legends mattered and stories were personal.

An etude in misplaced desire

To His Mistress the World Going to Bed

I have no license to touch
Your soul, if a soul had qualities to touch
No permission to enter your sanctuary
No heaven’s zone of glittery
I have no intimacy of the variety
That which my state could renew

No pass into the beauteous state
Of harmonious chime of feeling
I have no novelty in this condition
Of incessant repetition
Only hopes and sensations private
Like an imprisoned youth in an older body

It’s hollow here, beneath this flesh
This kingdom called my life, the sameness from
I have no insight into the women
Whom I admire, I used to have female friends
For they go on, like a lifetime of having children
Becoming full with roles

But for the men, they are wild in another way
Hair in their destiny, alone in their temple
Of peculiar tastes and defied responsibility
I have no license to touch these lives
Who are so full with duty, so unlike my own
We cannot truly coexist, only perhaps

Exchange a passing smile on our way
Until I labour, I in labour lie
A foe of women, a foe in sight
And I only have the power to observe
And it’s a hollow temple
Not to be able to touch the world more.

Anthem & Alchemy

So this was Earth
Handfuls of light
Europe on reverb
Beaches covered with
Ancient jars like

Star-shells fragrant
With some golden empire
From which they came
I saw young bodies
Throbbing breasts

Heart-beats of infinity
Shells rose-pink
A blur of traffic
So this was Evolution
In the minds of

Organics where
Drifted thoughts
Of arms spread open
For the coupling of desire
These youth who

Would one day pair off
And the sky’s veins
Would not recall
Who was with who
Or how children came

Each has no handles
The waves touch
The pebbles each time
They curl on to the shore
Like time, formed by clay

They gather tools to
Change themselves
Civilized barbarians
Becoming barbaric once again
So this was Earth

I’d heard the stories
Souls that could not
Be unmade, they learned
And grew somehow
In a software of

Reincarnation, I knew
Their minds emptied
Death was beautiful
A simple reset and
And the slaughter of

Selfishness, what a sight
Wheat doesn’t take long
To ripen, sex doesn’t
Take long to become
But a whisper in a life

Desires melt away
Attachments drift
Hopes once so vital
Seemed secondary
Each dream separately

Lulled, like the birds
Who cry at morning
Going quiet, at the coming
Of the Sun, it was
Just natural, and perfect.

Only to Hear you Cry for Mercy

Your lips flood me with first feelings
A cool breeze to our hot summer
To abandon uncertainties in you
Like the first kiss of the wind-flower

Your shy smile is slippery to my heart
I want to probe your inches & secrets
The hot quickening breath of awakened desire
To drink the wine of forbidden lusts

Then intoxicated will I move
Around your fresh foreign body
And slip between the resting places
In a kama-sutra of spring-summer romance

Your lips remind me of why I am young
Begging for an erotic ceremony
Between my fiery body and your open flower
The juices run clean down the stem

Like sap from the most feverish nectar
Your womb the resting place of dreams
Hunger has revealed itself in your moist places
You arch your body to meet my ecstasy

In the comfort of new shared skin
I stroke your glowing bottom-body
A slow rhythm of perfect entanglement
Each giving each other the foreign substance

Of material delight, I lose control in you
Forcing my way to your ember-bliss
I crush you with my weight and thrusts
That you might feel the Earth press above you

You are my heaven-flower in full bloom
A womanhood of beloved proportions.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/clic-376109803

O Like a Fire That Flickers for the Fairer Sex

I think of women on
Hot extravagant afternoons
Words from the Earth, my little bread
The water of centuries picked clean
I let the red ink of these prerequisite passages

Settle in me, their earthy wisdom
Like a masseur’s warm open hand
Their expert flirtation of
Psychology and innate fastidious ‘performance’
I think of women on

Cool nights that restore my pulse
I listen to them too much
To hasten to their self-same torments
I’ve heard all of their complaints
On the tipsy tip-toes of poetry

I did nothing to provoke them
My goldenrod of spilled yellow friendship
I am a living animal, in their presence
An outlawed sign-language of my desire
They read on their unmenacing lips

A sour frantic belonging of their value
I think of women on
Mornings of the shrewdest plans
They are instrumental to my cathedral-abundance
I’ve become too good at giving & giving-in

And now a most savage dog
I think of women on the way here, or there
After-hours rain downs my familiarity
I think of women like naming the planets
Pirates of my soul’s bleeding kisses

Whimper, silly, hush, flood, hot-flashed
I think of women and their sweet roar
Sweat, push, pull, sign, moan, hush.

I’ve Swallowed Distant Pollen in your Kiss

No one can reckon what I owe
To the wonders of this world
I am grateful for, your wilderness
Like a young girl becoming a woman

You brush your hand over me
And I rise, from the Sea to your Joy
Like the fields being watered
I surge to life in your hands

That know the creativity of Life
Like a blind bird with still so much flight
I roam for continents of your touch
Where wandering lightning might strike

In these loins, yielding in penetration
With the moisture of all that is yielding
Feeling with body, my ceilings of pleasure
Emotional in my lonely house, like a lover

Waiting for you, till you will see me again
No one can reckon what I owe
The brief devouring hope of flesh & soul
My body to rub your kiss, with certain pangs

Stealing the key to my innocence, my blood
On fire for you to continue your pleasing
My wineglass drunk every drop of your moisture
Sipping the roots of your womanhood

As if in your flesh I might find time, salt, whispers
The rumor of wood, green, growing things
No one can reckon what I owe
Life begets life, women bring joy

I am grateful, for the shadows in your moods
Like a young girl becoming a woman
I dare not trespass too close to your curiosity.

The You of a Secret Kiss, Like Stolen Bread

Someone said they had a word
For music of feeling, for longing
Sparse as the stripped light of youth

You are my bamboo grove
On a late afternoon, where I feel nothing
You are as a mouth struck opal

A divine surrender to infinity
Someone said they had a word
For longing, pure and simple

From the gulfs of crazy waves in rain
There is such stillness and movement
In my being, when I think of you

I believe your moist hands are
Like some indefinable South, some symbolic
Fragrance I cannot quite remember

Tangerine moisture and liquorish lush flavor
Some sensual spirituality for which
Invades my obscurity, like life to the artist

Like femininity to the protesting solitude
Of a monk, scholar, orator of surrealism
Someone said they had a word

For the breathless state of strange desire
Before sweetness, before thorns, before union.

Chaste by Revolt

It’s a serene irony, isn’t it dear?
How impotent we are in our moments
Across the bitter ease, of our lack of ambition
And the sevenfold love, of our lost dignity?

Languidly we plod on, like beings of evolution
A landscape of fresh Dawns, in cruel lands
It’s a surreal comedy, isn’t it friend?
Under a vast ceiling of silence

We suffice and part, equipped with desire
Enacting will, smited by the wilderness
The heart-mangled scorn of the past
Has nothing of note left on us

We are free at last, with the rich
Faun flash of new lines, new destinies
Beauty can flourish even in anguish
Life can feel vivid, even when sleeping alone

Feverish with independence, I beat away attachment
It’s a serene irony, insulted by promises
How I’ve grown old, even
At the risk of falling into eternity.

A Last World of Spring

It’s too late to cancel them now
Isn’t it? The birds of spring, sing
Like a mindful entry into the passage
Into summer, May will be coming soon

Reflected in the water of the buds
Fields of division among the twigs
It’s too late to wait up for it now

Isn’t it? The broad gestures of metamorphosis
There are no taboos in Spring
It walks into us from the inside

Sobering with sensuality, green effort
Hazards of the course of threshing floors
Of desire and clarity of impulse

It’s too late to cancel it now
Isn’t it? No more fence-sitting for us
Ambushed by the teeth of flowers

Like a perverse playroom before summer light
I can dwell here a while, to taste
The nearest stars in your liquid eyes.

Maybe I Loved You in Another Time

To the one offering the most
I’ll throw you with fervor
The intimacy channel
As if I were twenty again!
I’ll whisper to you my blond text

Barricade myself in poetry for you
Like a seasoned artist
In love with love, making beauty
For beauty’s sake, this
Petty song of my same-old revolution

I’ll call you the last revelation
Of my creation, mounting syllables
To suit your needs, to tailor your curves
In the alphabet of your most intimate voice
Like a blade of knowledge, I’ll cut you

Yes, like a young soldier dying
From neglect and love-wounds
I’ll tell you how I’m the lone survivor
Of too much will to love
I know it’s not really a news-flash

Simply, the price of delicate boredom
Strung out in a treasure vault
Of living in words, secluded form experience
To the one offering the most
I’ll give you this, melodies predicted

For the same reasons that makes your body
A womb I cannot intoxicate myself in
A period of mining your feminine sun
I have not the Venus laments left
To trick you into defiance of your self-defenses

So instead, I’ll wait for snow to cry
In April’s unrelenting gloom.

Uninterrupted Poetry

These poems are lost to me
Like the dead, there is no returning again
To what was, old loves

My mind feels them shouting there
Those who have died to us
Once here, now gone

It is the same with the music of the night
Grief dies to my renewal
I regenerate my lips, my ears, my thirst

Like a mausoleum of longing
I am, without ever being satisfied
I wake up to radiant mornings

Each and every day, jasmine at my feet
And I write poems, like lost waterfalls
Missed sunrises, broken comets

Stars on the tips of forgotten inheritance
These poems are lost to me
Like the emptying fulfillment of breath

Like a kind of solution to what I am
I create a rhetoric of distinguished ambiguity
Legislating my soul to be free

An embroidery without worldly cares
These poems are lost to me
I am not a thief of possession

But rather, a common beggar
With the guarantee of unearthly words.

Age of Embers

I am a blonde text
A glimmer of silver strains
Of lyrics dancing for eternity
The ageless paleness
Of the strange norm of color
I am an extinct language
Of shadow and wood fire
The respite of Spring’s desire
A cruel pang of origins
I am the last embrace of hope
Unable to recreate tribe or home
I have no talent to fashion suns
In this abyss of lost aloofness
I am a blonde text
The last weary complexion
Of opaline poetics, lost art
A marine diversion of untranslateable feeling.