Finally They the Authors of Canvases Let Loose


33

That’s a poet
not an angel
So few are the stars
Chosen ones, destined
for a life of novelty
I strike at winter’s transparency
Immediately schooled with images
the blue bell of winter
flaming in my heart
the blue flower of perennial gardens
growing back through my mind
I have no wings, just plumes
I write with the left hand
of my soul, that’s a poet’s business
the very thought of falling
back to Earth, harsh reality
So few are the dreams that
evade the glowing necessities
Here I love the words which
Silhouette infinity, are they really bright
or only the destined literature
of universals, like a timeless philosophy
that ages well, floating up for air
The light of the clay’s subtle attraction
to always be reborn
until we fall again to the blue stars
That’s a poet
not an angel
those who paint mirrors of lakes
inside their pretty neurons
who live for beauty
as if a flower plucked at sunset
frozen forever in latitudes of sweetness
with the bliss to convey eternity
cloud and swan scenes by a stream
of ancient Earth, before touched by users.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-Swan-318265936

At The Moment you Learn to Use your Hands


28

Teach us then how to beg
And not how to make a fist
I have been a warrior long enough

Teach us too to fold our fingers
In diplomacy’s easy request
Taking defeat out into the open

Where we are all a loser in the game
Of love & survival, all sense the same void –
Where we are married with shared tribulations

Teach us then how to shield a slender fate
To brace a door from a weary storm
Teach us the great cause of loving arms

Open hands that carry our playful travelling
And offer the ultimate grain of our salvation
Like a knot of fingers over-head
To opaque friends that ennoble all shared struggles.

Photo Courtesy Lhttp://www.deviantart.com/art/hands-54834532

In These Times You Have to be Terribly Careful


27

As a result of being confirmed
As unable to breathe or think
Confined in the dark, my friends
That is how I know I am dead –
Only occasionally is my heart now moved
By the plight of mortals and

The weight, of their mischievous mortality
They can’t reconcile themselves
To their condition, since their
lives are so full of change
They raise their heads clumsily
Like infants, only to live with a limp

Fearing the inevitable, I was once
Like light, adjusting myself
In the crypt of empty space
As a result of being, after the symphony
As unable to hear the empty music
Confined in the light, my friends

That is how I know I am yet alive –
I will take every occasion thus
To let my heart be moved
By the awkward wonders here,
And the stems of silence like levels
Of the hotel of flesh, where the carpet
Of my biology is somehow too soft.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Petrova-3-412362390

Extract from the Shadow of Beloved Objects


25

The most beautiful and precious
Is the object that does not exist
Like the future wish of the halo of heroes
Or the ideal luminous and true

The most lasting and love-worthy
Is the object not within our grasp

Like the divinity of our descendents
Or the possibilities of space-travel

The study of objects is in the
Service of water, the refinement of light
Where Antigone once cradled her truth
The most beautiful is the object

Which does not exist, yet
Neither blindness or death can

Take away this object, this stream of love
Which does not exist, like the mark of God

Invisible on your placebo laden brow
The most beautiful of possessions
Is belonging, who negates our absences
And regrets, every mortal hearts know her

She swells like an ocean, beneath
The salty increase, the after-world paradise
Awaits like a vertical-horizon of angelic
murmurs, muttering, smatterings, smackings.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/M42-411487757