know it

i want there to be
no branch for the bitter wind,
no refuge for the melancholy day,
only perfumed night guarded by roses.
let there be dead eyes among the living,
living blood poured over gravestones,
reaping years of marrowed soil.

search the crow's nest,
find my heart there.

know the thorn which wounds me
in its defense of me, wounding me,
fist tight clenched.

listen

i want to know
if you listen,
how can you understand?

listening to me,
how is it possible?

i am only this naked branch
bearing some strange
failing bird of unassuming
feathers.

you could be a daisy, buttercup,
grassy breeze or warm voice.

me:  soliloquy to the sun.
i look to you
and i see the moon
in shadows.

illusion

illusion--
elusive!

love--
tender branch.
succulent breath
whispering
inaudible.

faint star
dwindling,
twinkle
behind clouds
shrouded.

love--
exhausted,
expensive
high cost,
lost self.

love--
delicious cherry
beyond reach,
seeking you with
eyes unseeing.

love--
swollen dream
incomprehensible,
uninhabited sleep:
restless dawn.

love,
illusion:
elusive!

want, not

i want it, not wanting--
   is this possible?--
nothing, save blood-colored honey,
the rose that never blooms,
tarnished silver,
the impossible!

love swords

love--
a thousand little kisses,
how many swords of agony?

touch the falling night.
slow pirouette of stillness, one-footed.
single-eyed, the clock stops.

ocean eternal! give up your salt,
forget my name but grant me
wings, or scales, moonlight scattered.

silence is not golden:  leaden.
dark purpose of sinking, heart
beating...itself against the wall.

love--
a thousand little kisses,
each one:  sword of agony!

questions of self

is it too early
to ask for my own pardon,
to inquire about the manner
in which i may meet myself
anew, perhaps with new shoes,
or less words, a brighter flame,
or even a definition
of my indefinite?

there are sad excuses for
wayward words, for
mistimed withdrawals and
for deliberate misunderstanding.
it is true i never loved the barber
yet sought the shears with which
to cut away the ivy
of my cluttered head.

not much has happened that went
unnoticed by those who matter
or do not matter. everywhere i am
i encounter myself in others
or in their words and actions.
therefore, when they seek to erase my name
or sing my praises i must forgive them
for not knowing me, for not knowing
i have been foolish the entire time.

what have i done? what did these hands
do, if not spell out the exact nature
of my folly? what purpose did they fulfill
by penning these forlorn pages
where the evidence of a forgotten sea
waits to be buried?

for my part i am resigned
to never taking myself as seriously
as i present in these pages.

i too am a fool and a clown,
clumsy with words.

just a gray day in spring

give me this sea, this placid longing
through a sad and sinking window,
allow me the currency of the present curtain
of gray fabrics drawn against the sun.

the window of spring has shut,
and i am pushed into a misty
form that is formless. tiny needles
of rain shatter the surface of the sea.
she is a refracted mirror too tired
to stir her appendages, unable
to walk or swim.

so it is i, eyes and ears and heart
afire, looking, listening, feeling my way
through a topsy-turvy season,
witnessing footprints, watching them
recede. i cannot find
the precision of my path
amid such shifting shores.

i have seen it all before.
this is my home, my cradle
and my grave.
i greet this gray curtain
with a steady hand, parting
the liquid illusion, seeking
evidence of blue, gold, green,
or just a falling feather.