Questions in morning

Is the rain naked
When she washes the streets?
For spring and flowers
For returns of prosperity

Is the snow cold
To visit the earth?
The wet dark earth
That has nothing to give
But shelter and a place to land?

Is the rose afraid of being seen?
With her lips turned into petals
And the moist dew
Clinging to her wings?

Does the heart regret to love?
That caused a woman so much pain
Is there anything in this world sadder
Than the old man pursued by
Only bees, without belonging?

The Death of Roses, 玫瑰之死

It’s July, and the world smells like roses
The Sunshine is powdered goal
My gladness can carry you
Don’t you know my sentimentality by now?

Crimson and sensual, likes splashes of blood
I shall end my life in Rose petals
The months you tended me
Your hands grew roses from my body

And I became, someone beautiful
In your expectations of tasting
Sweetness in everything
It’s July, and the world is good near you

Like a woman with untidy hair
The bouquet that was our affection had
Become messy, passionate with a fragrance
For an obsession at the garden

Of growing hidden buds, that might at any moment
Bloom, ready to die, is there anything as
Romantic as roses on a grave?

The point is you can turn my grief into love
You, like the rose are helping me find grace.

DELIGHT OF THE MIDNIGHT ROSE, 午夜玫瑰的喜悅

Soft desires I can trace
Back to the lap of Roses who
Sing away with secret smiles
For whispers of their softest limbs
Whimpering for petals that say

Touch my cheek, pet my soul
When thy little heart doth wake
For this light shall break
On this womb, this womb that makes
A Rose as sweet, Red like the Lioness

Red like the sacred flesh
Soft desires fragrant like the whole
The Rose that sets love on fire
From a hungry gorge, the pit, the abyss
Terror of the divine form embraced

The Rose’s thorns, furnace sealed
A hungry Rose that lingers secretly
For the touch of a woman’s hand
The rose is not fair without the beloved’s face
Lips that like to sugar, grace like a flower
That sways, in the breeze, for mirth and feast.

If Roses Could Speak

You walked blithely Where you stayed In the arms of the Rose Red Rose, White Rose, Pink rose Where you stood touching her I felt your perfectly Natural brightness of giving In the blaze of the dove With the sun-rose …

Whispers of The Rose

The temple bell dies away
An Empire scatters to the winds
But the scene of a flower
In the evening air

Is Immortal, like the Rose
Whose red-spirituality
Is still tolling the bell
Still Holding up the Empire

Of beauty, this haunts even the sun
A silence at the palace chambers
Of the mystic visionary heart
The dream of life from

All my other dreams, the last symbol
She spreads infinity scrawled
In her pink petals to the starry sea
Each time I encounter that

The sacred fire that is God’s temple lit
A unity of the universe in a leaf
I know the spirit wears its own plumes
Back to the source of our divinity.

Call to Poets CONTEST, enter your 3 best poems:

http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Wuji-International-Poetry-Festival-V/49443/

To read about it:

https://seshatwuji.wordpress.com/wuji-international-poetry-festival/%5D

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/rose-152423323

A Brief Definition of Longing

My longings died for the youth
beautiful bodies aged and with
roses by the head, jasmine at the feet

time did not save anyone, longing passed
like the words of the dead, who lived
in the presence of sensual pleasures

so fleeting, temporary, the vivid aches
but radiant mornings drove us on
the timid imaginations of a lifetime

in blood flesh and hot striving for survival
exalted young sensualists have to become
something else, mystical longings

that have a difficulty defining the goal
a forbidden ecstasy of meditation otherworldly
where synapse kisses the universe

my longings died past mid-life
the beautiful angels did not age
the spirit would never die

love’s height lifted above a person
we would become separated forever

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/autumn-408633691

The Duty of the Poet

I will take thee, as a Poet
To candidature for ethereal thrill
Subtle as the inner champers
Portions of visions, phrasing that

Dwell as full as an image – the red Rose
I will transport thee, as a Poet
To Cathedrals of fraught mortality
Joys of darling spontaneity

To risk all for the Scarlet Shelf
And usher in liberty for arcs of white
I will love thee, as a Poet
Until the house is full, that of the dream –

As conquering as love’s palaces
As secure, as divine intercourse
I will lead thee, as a Poet
As a carpenter on hands & knees

With opened palms, known to nobody –
As a stranger speaking of the elder tongues
I will speak of summer fields
And unheralded flowers dropped from memory

As a juggler turned wordsmith
As a prayer turned literary
I will take thee in, as a Poet
As the original artist of creative Vermilion

The pressed dust of symbolic projection
Of minds painted with brief beauty
That warrants pricelessness, with every line
These bards never awake from midnight’s trance.

Chronicle of Comet-Like-Jewel Eyes

I am alive with lucid memories
That are mere moments
Of my future, ribboned sequences
Of the pure enactment of miracles
The little crazy buzz
Of kindness, the gift of giving

The altruism principle, in full bloom
Flowering of big-sky belonging
I am alive with the joy-in-chaos
Of hours stretched to the bottom
Of every corner, every error, deployed
Like sentinels of the state-of-wonder

Fresh like cinnamon roses-buds
Moving colors of wispy vanilla
Chocolate resplendent autumns
I am alive to the best of the world
Where harvests come from strange occurrences
And accidents lead me to love

The old jewel box by the side of the road
Where you smiled at me
And changed me forever.