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

Lyrics in Recession


This horrible but superb painting
Is modern society faltering badly
the autumn empire of greed falling
an economic diagonally downward spiral

it’s october and I’ve found anticipation for a day
the pure diversion of the eternal present
it will be all gone soon enough
This splendid but tragic superb music

of living without justice and competing
nestling the alarms of a hush-throated society
I will close the doors of sense and world-news
for a humbling sort of use of poetry

to satiate the lyrics that internally glisten
for the new creation of some future’s
giant transforming wing, for minds
and youth to whom all anguish has been mended
to live or not to live, in a better world.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Lightness-of-Being-404173536

The Final Writing Brought me Peace


I have had my dream like others
Born of poetry and poverty
Dreaming with the weight of body
Living with love’s open-cares

I have had my dream with infinity
Caressed by strange rumors in my brain
When I am alone, I wait for writing
The air is cool inside my throat
I have had my dream on doorsteps
Of Mandarin idioms and Sanskrit prayers
I have wrote a mysticsm full of my own
Odes to the Cosmos, tripped up my heels

I have had my dream of reincarnations
Triumphant over the most beautiful sorrows
The tragedies were there to teach us
Like a poem with obvious imperfections

We loved and wrote because
We wanted to grow more stupid and peaceful
I have had my dream like other writers
Like an archer in flight, a swan in gleaming
The courageous arrows, gold against the blue.

Photography Courtesy: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Heavenly-fractal-378875666

My Rooms of Poems will Receive Me


Slowly swayed were our little truths
The rinse of poems on a stretched out youth
Shimmering they left us bare
With Epitaphs for semantics

The final language of high tendrils
That swayed and sung
Of little things on the wood’s edge
And triumph amid

The warm summer air
The quiet doorway where we grew
From a broken house into true light
Firm between stones of artistry
What were we but the thoughts we made
The poems we wrote etched our
Entire biographies, as if the elected
Voice of the day, something to keep

A light-hearted author alive
Faith to point to burning greens
That would never die, Agh, with white flowers
Whose pollen would mix with the stars

Slowly swayed were our little truths
That redfaced love of younger years
It brought us clean vocabulary
Of all that time left undone

And polished our lips for stanzas
Sonnets of the moist black soil
Of our clutch on sentience, dearly trodden
The few words our lives would leave.
The few homes of moments gone unread.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Drawing-Board-378815701