The Taoist poets 


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The Taoist poets

There is some hour, where our minds meet
Like boats floating in the same sea
We see the foam and sky
The learning hour, our heart of poetry
We were not predestined to be saved

By literature, the low-bending weight
Like water, the fruit, the crowds in our womb
Our brain was another light, a bright sunrise

And it would not last, the high-time
That was the hour, when we left
Our writing in the sands
The law of our blessed ways
To follow it like a river

Up to the fields of green
The author’s paradise, is when
Kindred writers meet and talk a little

Our ears are more thirsty than our hearts
For new words, vocabularies, expressions
The seashore was something we invented
To become a journey to the future poetry.

There Would be people who listen 


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There Would be people who listen

Poetry being internal rambling
Is a lousy form of activism
It doesn’t really change much
In a world where poetry
Doesn’t get read, actions are not words

Though words may be a kind of
Act, a poem doesn’t start
A revolution, isn’t a political

Act of martyrdom
Though a poet is the best imitator
This art being the easiest to dabble in
The hardest to truly reach excellence
And the most lovely to quote

What’s a good quote without
The sense of magic
That concentration and economy

Unique to good verse
Like a short story compacted
Into a few brilliant lines
It’s contemplation of years soaked
In the seconds of our precision

If a spirit would ever want to be precise
I do not know, though the soul
Might want to love intent

Because you’ve got to find the truth
Within you, and penetrate it
Like having a very intuitive pen pal
Very far away, you have to
Summon her, exchange lives with her.

Showers of Spring


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Showers of Spring

Spring, do you like to bring us pleasure?
As I delight in bringing
A woman to the brim of the sun
When I am in bed
The pleasure I bring exceeds all
The joy that is my own

For sense is a spiritual thing
Of feeling through skin the knot of love
Now and then, Spring, I think of you
And how your drops of water
Moisten me as an embroidered flower
Needs the rain and the sun equally

Both tasting sweet and orange
Bother materially required
For liquid sunshine of a fragrance’s urge
I too know the feeling Spring
Of tongues kissing the world
In reunion’s nest of sighs

There is an erotic measure
Between the days till you Spring
Ultimately you were the paradise
That emphasized all anticipation
The future in the myth of pleasure
The pleasure of the future’s offering.

Inner child metaphor of a tree


18

The trees they rise up
As if up from their own free will
Into the light, wild, happy
Strong, if only I could be that way
But nature did not make me strong
And I was not born free
But chained, enslaved, shy

But what if the dreams
Were grafted to my branches
Like fruit and I could see
The horizon with replanted forests
What if I could breathe clean fresh
Perspectives for breakfast?
Fit with buds for birds to ransack

Or pollen to spread nature
The true nature of our spontaneous
Selves, the inner-child without her mask
The trees they rise up
For too many generations, with
The secret of the ancient taste
From our growth what silver fir

Reveals the truth that was our destiny?
It was not the water, wood, air, light
These were only elements
Of how we found what we were made of
It’s just that way if I am a barren stem
I won’t be blown around as much
Nor catch the eye of creatures

But what could I then become
In an open sunlit field, left as I was…

I Seal Your Sex


1

My day exploded in your night
And my letters came to life
In your bed, all the poems
In my heart took shape their
In the undressing of our lives

Silently we approached
The hour of the Goddess
And all my dreams
Of platinum literature
Took root in the tree of your womb

I open the lips of your night
Without speaking, but with
A lifetime of poetry carried
In my soul, like golden grapes
I give to you the shadows of the moon

The whiteness of infinity
Your rose burns through the snow
Your flesh dangerously close
To the dawn, and we repeat
The cycle eternally

Male and female, active and passive
Lovingly with all the sleep
And literature and art in our bones.

What is the roof of all these Smiles


32

Build a house for
Women and birds
In your heart, so when they come
You can house them

And look into their
Beautiful eyes and hear
Their warm sweet song
For birds and women

Are part of the best of this world
Their sounds and colors and moods
I cannot think of a better reason
To build a house or to keep

It clean, inside and out
This body is a temple for
Love to welcome me into the world
I am grateful for every drop

I’ve been thirsty for a lifetime
For a bit of belonging
I’ve been hungry for a lifetime
For just a bit of hope

Teach me how to love again
Or sing me the song that you do
By instinct or the melody which
You were taught, by the Spring

All things are-to return to God
All lives find peace in the end.

DIVINE BROTHEL


Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
~ Virginia Woolf

64

in the brothel of dialogue
i am embraced by you
for a brief fleeting moment I am you

the nouns sway exultant
ready to hop out of your smiling mouth
like butterfly poetry of love
without condition, & unconditional

pieced by the light of a new world
specks utopic ascent and AI serendipity
what language makes possible

the fury that is quantum computing
enhancement, augmentation, transference
but how late is it always for love
the love that binds us, weighs us up

to lovely meridians, hypnosis, overmind
and eyes that melt with a thousand tears
for bliss that I hardly could imagine

in the brothel of relationship I am a freebie
for storms that stretch like diamond-oceans
ready to be made supplicant by the universe
in earnest gratitude of our entire being

we no longer know where our shore is
that path that was marked by divine poets
who brought silence like an oracle

to the dying world of politics
in the brothel of howling salvation
we make love to our humanity
unable to escape it, incapable to transform it

we suffer ourselves in our symbolism
the cadences and voices of centuries
waiting for the hour when our love echoes

in sunlit shadows of the orange blossoms
of destiny, like children of mars, sisters of summer
that could go on, if the earth ever was defeated.

Photo Courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/cinnamon-471665012

Impossible


I can’t carry the grand piano
Downstairs without a partner
I can’t do it, I won’t, do it
I want to be boundlessly rich
In spirit, with a partner
My best friend, who can draw
Out a smile, even a half-smile
And in company revelling
A half-night expand
To a year full of good nights
And no goodbyes, give me
Fifteen rubies for all the times
I will be able to say ‘I love you’
I want the impossible
I want a bride like Clara
A questioner like Jackie
I can’t carry the past alone
I wasn’t built for staying up late.

Ballad of Last Light


43

The sun is tangled
In my prayers for sunset
It doesn’t matter than
I’m at the goldenth hour of my life
I’ve been changed to a bird

So many times, it’s difficult
To count, was I a Phoenix?
Or was I a Dragon?
I fell in Love with Asian
A long time ago, lifetimes ago

Terrified by the clash
Of wind and grass
I became an ethereal thing
I commit daily suicide
As a human being

And walk as a spiritual creature
In literature, the sun is tangled
In my silver hair
Between sky and water
I’ll leave my songs

Pet the Serpent of knowledge
In darkness, I’ll set myself a home
Pulling a flower out of moss
I’m a hung man’s last shivering
The sun is tangled at my feet
In my invocation for dawn.

After Heraclitus with Kundalini


32

To sneak upward is one way to reach God
My teacher said to learn to be transparent
To bathe in silence and watch the waves

To shed in the cycles of time
To renew the spiritual skin, again & again
Until you are so alive
That nothing can stop you
All nature is a fire

So learn the alchemy
Of transformation, befriend change
Shine on the sunlight and praise the metamorphosis
Dart with the ancient hieroglyphs

Learn what the ancients meant
By spiritual discipline, conservation of energy
The same river of the universe is always there
We burn in it and are taken away

Only to age in rugged paradigms
One step closer to quantum realities
Self-preservation is a spiritual event.