I heard your voice, a trill of fresh love and free. Such a sweet memory, that paces from morning to night. Soon, the days will cool. But all my ways of being will rest with you. Lily on lily, and lips with slow twilight.
Are watching as the earth plunges beneath your feet. And the gentle suffering of the bodies, stirs up the tears in the mist. Not even the doctors you trained, can save the daisy that sleeps. Only the poets are left, to tease out the kinks. With a silk pen, and music to match.
Tethered to life. Come let’s go, and crack these frozen shadows. There is always something to write about. Even the sun and moon thinned to a thread. A toast from those summer days of love. And a treasure for all our tomorrows.
The warnings never sunk in. Unlike you, I did not follow nostalgia. Nor looked at the stars too long. Seared into my aching bones, is the most beautiful one. Who whispers to me gently. Calling my name, and knocking at my heart. All to preserve my determination and free spirit. A sleeping passion, to move beyond this neglect. And our encounter, once again.
Dead flowers wither, caught by a late freeze. Only you, still delight the eye. Enough for life, and the long dark nights. The pretty butterfly and the big bee.
Paint, write, sing or carve. Not gold, just dignity and honours sake. I work while others sleep, and dare to care. For those who cannot see the evening close. Nor look the whole world in the face. A heritage from my father, it seems to me. To you, I am modestly dumb. But by labour, has only just begun.
Butterflies still outside my window Daylight healers scattered. I remember holding your hand, enjoying the fresh scent. And everything came through the heart. Two souls swimming through grace.
Eastern winds are blowing. Scarred from too many escapes. Blank pages linger, under withered ideas. And that jade fabric singing in the air. A light inside my lungs, life is turned on. As if these silent days will never return.
A yawning gulf between my vision and reality. Between a place to love, and the spawning gravels. I want to be simply myself, with some sharp edges. Not your flames, fed on myth, indifference and apathy. Into a promise, I am walking it. A path of zen-groomed sand. Towards that sea-lit sky.
I am still here. Not yet sucked flat. Or forced into a single pride. Under the domain of a father-worship. You seem demented by my being. Stalking around, looking for alien jokers. A custom of this place.
A Wandering Poet 