Seasons to Sing


Poetry is another philosophy of life

I’ve been drunk on words
For a decade of my golden-bronze
Youth that found inner maturity
On reading poems

Finding truth and beauty
In the voices of human hearts
That were left on pages

There, as if for me to read
The writer is the sacred audience
I’ll never roll my eyes
At a work of art, because

I know how much sweat goes into it
It’s a labour of love
I’ve been drunk on lyricism

For lyrics of a few minutes
That burned and blew
In so much mental well-being
It made divinity accessible

And the stars seem more near
Broadening the inner horizon
Like a fresh mind

Poetry does not require
Work, it’s a play
Let me explain
Just read more of these words

Inserting images of rebirth
And autumn unimaginable
Of the destiny that was spring

The spring I have found again
In mental vocabulary
We all possess this poetic capacity.

The You of a Secret Kiss, Like Stolen Bread


Someone said they had a word
For music of feeling, for longing
Sparse as the stripped light of youth

You are my bamboo grove
On a late afternoon, where I feel nothing
You are as a mouth struck opal

A divine surrender to infinity
Someone said they had a word
For longing, pure and simple

From the gulfs of crazy waves in rain
There is such stillness and movement
In my being, when I think of you

I believe your moist hands are
Like some indefinable South, some symbolic
Fragrance I cannot quite remember

Tangerine moisture and liquorish lush flavor
Some sensual spirituality for which
Invades my obscurity, like life to the artist

Like femininity to the protesting solitude
Of a monk, scholar, orator of surrealism
Someone said they had a word

For the breathless state of strange desire
Before sweetness, before thorns, before union.