In Process of the Seasons of You in Me


 

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Love, there was never an audience

Only the taste of a premonition

That died so easily in your hands

And my life was an illusion

 

But my dreams had a vividness to me

You were never old to me, I never tired of your

Native voice, the April lift of your soul

The green Junes burning in your hair

 

The majesty of your words

That my songs could never dear

Summers died at your feet

Love, I roamed beaches and years

 

Trailing the path you had fled

And white as the sun, I never tasted you

Only an invisible promise of hope

That bled in me when I thought of you.

W e A r e What We T h i n k


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W e A r e What We T h i n k

If we become what we think
To purify the mind should
Should be our priority
The mind is everything

So let us not dwell on the past
Or dream too much of the future
But love the present as
The greatest gift, like

Health, wealth, faithfulness
And learn to love too
The nature of change who
Can be aggressive or docile

Peace comes from within
Conquer yourself with acceptance
Love yourself with surrender
The shadow’s good health requires

That we become less attached to our shadow
The patterns we fabricate
As comfortable routines of dysfunction
The shadow is what we must act upon

Holding on to anger or giving words
To sadness to ourselves
If we become what we think
We must laugh at our shadow

Convince it to dissolve
For we have to work our own salvation
Do not depend on others for it
They will not have time to care for it.

To The Moonbeam of Mirroring Trance


119

Art though pale for weariness
O Supermoon, comet stricken between
The ocean & the stars

Golden of milky blue horizons
Wandering reflecting, forever mirroring
Light, gazing on the Earth

With mellow agriculture of changing moods
Art thou joyful with inconstancy?
Forever cycling through different birth-hours
*
Creating in thy gaze moonbeams that bathe
My brow, inciting wild-flowers
And orbs of clouds to star-studded night

With intervals of shadow and burning brooding
Why are thou so pale for memory?
O Supermoon, comet stricken for

Nature’s tired reposes, radiant with disclosure
For another midnight of Death
Gloomier never, only more silver

In burning mimicry, with an orb so bright
Golden of milky blue horizons
That even a twilight of care, might mirror thee
&
O’ moon, with pangs of the poetry of the Eons
Forgotten destiny born to repeat.

June 25th, 2013

Photography Courtesy: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Supermoon-201643429

A Drop of Blood Like Shadows


10

My shadows have remained
Behind there, like a midnight guest
That doesn’t know when to leave
But the truth of the matter

Will surface, in sleep
The frosted sacrifices for art
Will suffice, the choice to be free
How the house is altogether preoccupied

Dust to dust, something called love
In the world, perhaps it’s not for me
Into a sterner living I must surrender
Why? Because life’s calculation found me wanting

There is no mercy in these stark designs
Of fate, no morning ray that sweet
Uncouth are the women who left me
Just as with my mouth I used to travel

Down their spines, their hips, their hands
Like a quiet shawl of tremulous abandon
I must warm myself with paler dreams
The dread of separation still in my gut

Heavy as a lost gleam of a lake of swans
There is nothing to forgive, nakedness is ruthless
My shadows have remained
I only sow the reaping done, a late comer

To reality, and ecstasy and maturity
I arrive at incredible vexation
A rage to break the barriers of sheltered patterns
Afloat in me like ice in foaming wine.