No Word About Love

The clock is chiming in our wombs
Ready for a new world to be born
Time never outlasts our heroism
If only we realized the end could be near

It’s austere to love this world and her music
Too much, I think sometimes I do
Farewell to another lonely year
How had you loved? Who cares what you did!

Time is running with new longings
I feel them in you, in kind
Distance from afar, spooky action noted
Love’s feature-bliss has no casual witnesses

It’s something white hot inside of us
It’s the need to create more than
Software, more than poems
More than playing in the dark

The clock is running out of hands
And my intent is running out of eyes
I don’t have the eyes in this world
To see all the beauty, and participate

Sometimes in a revolution, when the
Activists have all died, what shall we do?
When there’s nobody to read the books we write
No word about love, in such a brutal world

No men to embrace, no women to educate us!
And this moonlight looks for the end of all adoring
But I cannot help myself, I’m foolish in all things
The clock keeps me grounded in absurdity

Never a nihilist, I laugh shyly into the wild
I’m always the honored guest at the feasts
Of the imagination, where I roam freely
But, the partners are sourly missing

I’m holding my own hand in this anonymous playground
Committing blunders for my scanty hope
So long I’d live and work alone
That I might forget all heart and mercy
Or suffer time’s designs with stronger plans.

Years Precise as Ghosts

 

 

The city air is for the new year now

Old December hushed with

Her curled fingers ajar

Catching winter by

 

These carved nostrils of change

There will be no spring negotiations

Only, the scarlet feet of

Many paths, that blindly

 

Lead to midnight’s little toes

And all these wings of dreams

Made of glass and gold

Splintered as it were

 

Against a blue skied sun

Petrified blossoms of memories

We are all like innocent scientists

Doing experiments, searching

 

For our truths, breadcrumbs of what

We expected to find, involving

Migrations, errors, fortunate learning

To be who we were meant to become

 

The city air doesn’t know of our struggles

Nor does Old December care

She has her own worries and desperate flights

Still tracing the old signs on

 

Her way back home, dimmest flutter

Of favourite streets, and

The delight of being lost in imagination.

 

 

 

 

 

I had no rest against her autumn cheeks

Autumn closes in on me
Soft as the bed in the earth
Cool as marble above the clouds
Her arms and her hands bleed

Red & orange maples, rain on leaf
The smell of rich damp pores
A cloak of darkness before cold
The chilly air bringing dark to

My eyes with her lack of usual sunshine
Autumn closes in on me
Bringing me into a spiritual transitional
State, the quiet time together

Of pondering what was, in buds of what will be
I am swollen with change for
Her racing weeks of busy months
Like the pounding of horses in the mud

I awake to find leaves have changed
They have fallen in groups of colors
To form the imaginary kingdom of
Mountains of mirth, sometimes I believe

We all invent our kingdoms
To cope with all of life’s many states
So the body of autumn might detain me
So I might bare my branches for art.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Motherland-Chronicles-34-In-the-Secret-Garden-404198254