To You, With Poems

To You, With Poems

I won’t wait for you, forever
My poems are faster than I read
Words tongued with fire

I’m the last of them, they
Live in me, it’s not a gift
To be self-forgetful
To urge on, the inner supply

Is endless, so who’s to say
That I didn’t witness
The destruction of all of man

Love is thicker than we forget
More thin than we recall
Because love is the price of everything
It’s more seldom than the wave is wet

And more true than the sun
Love is less alive than living
Subtract it and there is no fun

I won’t wait for love, I’ll live it
More frequently even in failure
More nobly even in error
And that’s why these poems

Multiply in landscapes rare
The architects must be most courageous
To let us love again.

“Love is thicker than we forget
More thin than we recall
Because love is the price of everything”

STAINING OUR LIPS WITH PEACH AND NECTARINE

i

Lovers are like children lost in the garden
Caught in trust and fear and something else
Discovery two by two, mounting into blue
Negotiating a secret fringe of desire
And how the fountains bubble bright and clear

ii

And the world goes on, careless of her
Labelled afflictions, it’s life just so you know
Bright black and blue, exploration made difficult
By the mind’s apprehension, and caution
That strangles us to the bones, this monotony
Of Evolution’s tick-tack-toes against the

iii

Rising wind of our youth’s carelessness
Lovers you are so pragmatic, hardly even platonic
Chasing every last and wayward power
Because you don’t know what you want

iv

Getting older against an independence raw
Guilty of regrets you do not talk about
Love, it’s getting old that you were once wronged
Love is a holiday from the past, and if you can’t
Do it, this sunlit juice well, it won’t last.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Heal-them-453231010

With the Language of the Birds

There is an order of love
That knows no boundaries
It’s the serving that affirms existence

It’s being out of the senses
With gratitude, conversing with compassion
Where devotion is sustenance

And the Beloved is formless, and thus
Present at all peculiar times
The sagest source of moments

I’m half heart, and spirit
I’m half clay, and water
I met the Beloved last night

In an open field of dream
I was told to live like a drunken gypsy
That my true income was measured in Bliss

So I wobbled left and bobbled right
Not knowing how to do it
Until I let myself go a little mad
To live among strangers & lovers.