caring, not caring

today, i do not have it within me
to answer the distress call of the aching sea,
i have not the energy for a search and rescue
mission for a heart setting, sinking over the horizon.
today, a brilliance of light and reflection
is emblazoned throughout the air, the sea
does not move. my heart is here, not out there,
and i need not move, to go off searching,
fleeing, departing.

there are days like these within which i float,
or i could tumble like a seed, smile like a child,
dance, or sleep. i know i'm alive, incorruptible
and innocent, yet prone to the folly of tomorrow.
i don't care, i only live for today.

departing

always there is this departing, this separation,
of rain from cloud, leaf from branch, wave
from sea, heart from throat,
clumsy words from these unspoken lips.
i depart from fire and ash, returning
to this root and stone:
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
this aimless rambling bird of haphazard feathers.

why is it that i tread a daily path toward some heaven,
only to depart those gates, returning again
to this vacant longing and restlessness,
slipping into a dream, waking, setting forth
on my daily sojourn, trying to remember,
learning to forget?

what part of it is missing? what sense of self
has also departed which i find lacking?
behind which gate, and with what key?
why can i not get the words straight?
is my heart turned inside out, or is it
my enormous head that bars the way?

why must this skin prevent me from erupting
into pure flame? when will this form
rise into its conflagration, an incarnate
carnation with carnal petals that spring
from winter's ash?

the ceaseless sea waves to me,
i ripple back, departing her door,
and i die with each wave,
rearranging the stones and dispersed time,
sands that sink by the hour, and still
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
these scattered shells, wordless words,
this departure due to arrive
according to its daily schedule,
returning me to my self.

killer wind

oh, these long and obtuse nights, evenings
with little cheer, filled with wine and smoke,
a hissing fire and invasive shadows.
tonight all the winds of the world
converge upon this land, testing the limits
of tree tops and threatening to scatter
even the stars from their impervious perch.

i am shut in, solitary
and confined to this hermetic duty,
watching over wrinkled logs who journey
toward their bones of ash.
the wind could kill me if it wished.

i could die and be reborn by the end of this poem,
broken and reassembled, torn apart
by this hounding hunger
and passed through the guts of despair
before emerging with naked wounds
and wishing for a new song,
wishing for you still, for an impossible spring,
a peace treaty with gravity, a fresh memory bank,
empty of desire, needing nothing.

careful folly

only now, at this time,
in these moments between breaths,
when it is i, the slow fire burning,
only now, when i see myself
within this oblivion, this orchard
of potential triumph, when i can
fully encompass this solitude, this
grand melancholic longing,
the unforfeitable desire
to embrace the grey wind
and the green tears of this
ancient tapestry.

i am moved by certain ailments.
maybe it's love, or passion,
or careful folly...careless ambition.
i am trapped beneath this
falling sky and swelling soil,
the sea marching inland to wash
my soul, to memorize my blood
so i can navigate these foreboding waters.

i am in this epic tale of wandering,
wondering where these pages end,
bewildered by these feathered clouds,
astonished by this abundant
decay and renewal.

and now, in the small hours
of dying embers, i raise my wine
and kiss the dream, kiss
the imminent future,
dreaming of wine and women,
fruitful desire, empty bottles
and nothing else,
nothing but emptiness.

poet's death

do not misunderstand me
when i speak of death.

forgive me, it is a poet who lives here,
someone in love with life,
but a book is not a book
without its final page.
therefore
my life is empty
without death.

i want only to hear the rain,
to understand why this land
weeps transitory tears, why
she tolerates so much fickle wind.

i want only the majesty
the sea will allow me to abide.

i was born by her side.
i live by her side.
forgive me, but when my terminal wave
departs, i will die beside her.

lusty tomato

my heart sits adjacent a ripe fruit,
a perfect delicacy of plump flesh, on fire
and singing in perfume.
a tomato languishes upon the kitchen counter,
voluptuous and on the verge,
bursting with insatiable desire.
soon, my love, these hands,
these lips, will traverse your luscious hemispheres,
and we will find bliss together,
unifying our flesh, solar and foliar.

old news is new

round and round and round we go.
enter the dragon, liquify the fire
and magnetize the salt, salinate these
oceanic emotional waves, watered tears
gardening lunar fruit, flow now
with passion toward a rebirth,
reborn.

this is nothing new.
this is completely new.
this land, this sea, this air,
these mountains and forests,
birds and beasts, friends, family,
lovers, this time and place,
a familiar tune with an evolving rhythm:
i have lived this before
and i will live it through again,
i will die within the framework
of this eternal song.

so magnificent, so precious,
so uncommonly worthwhile,
and all the while i am on the shore
with my heart and its roots,
i am witness and participant to this
highest lived moment.
i am forever growing inside and out,
declaring my love for this, declaring
my melancholy banner of personal ecstasy.