Once there was
a mass of kisses.
A high raid in the
heart of summer.
Eyes travelling
all over my body.
And that love
fell from sky, field
and from the hills.
A memory made of light,
of the highest blaze.
You keep my soul,
my distant female.

The friged morning,
wrapped in a sash of tears.
Waiting for the
springtime to turn.
Each small laugh
turns to emptyness.
A single dark angel weeps.
Wind beaten,
yet silence can deceive.

Grey mists, a life’s drape.
A losers querulous
brain sails wearily.
Waiting to live out its span.
Buried under swarming
coins of jade.
 
Dawn arrives and no one
receives it in their mouth.
All too sullen and kiss tied.
A tangle of old veins,
hurting without rest.
 
Another day, I watch plum rain
whiten the dead streets.
And no one is sleeping.
Each pen scratching
at the heart of life.
 
I know then, of the
harshness of hearts.
And the haunting
beauty of a maids love.
I can no more touch
your face and lips.
Or wait until my
dreams come true.
 
So I laugh and dream
among the flames.
Among the embers
of a dying sun.
And imagine a love,
floating down from
the cliffs like rain.

From night’s innocent corner.
A sky of sleeping moon
and sleeping magpies.
There is no reason
for you to hide.
Each sorrow, a goddess
guarding the city.
No longer overdosed and numb.
But youthful ears
inebriated with the rhythm
of Emily Dickinson.
Now seduced,
and turned to Bukowski.
Don’t walk away, in silence.
The muses are all dead.
Now is your time,
to cast the golden crown.

 
Gentle people,
dancing around
plum temples.
In the distance,
faint sounds of a
Shakuhachi.
And the crows called
out for more.
But cool stars enter,
a leafless tree
from the foothills.
Now, too cold
to play the music.
A gentle wave,
wets my sandals.
And voices rise
once again.

Outside,
the soft rain
leaves the flowers
bowed low.

Inside,
words with
such tenderness.
Pick me up to the quick

Once again,
my wrinkled hands have fire.
The deep river,
no longer asks for a kiss.

Green water sings along.
Spring is upon me.
I feel the boat moves no more –
chained there.
A few monuments
hanging on the temple wall.
The monks stage – effects.
No rage, but forgiveness.
As he stoops,
to take up your soul.
One gulp of spring is enough.
From here on in,
I’ll become a spirit.
And speak to the world,
face-to-face

Alone at last,
Blue dusk lingers on.
What a lark.
Swinging my feet,
and turning
everything into itself.
Deep in my notebook,
a new leaf floats by.
Dressed in spare colours.
Back from the war,
a bird shadow passes.
Looking for soul food,
and a way home.
And the river rekindles itself.
From years
of elevator silence.
I hope I’m right,
that nothing is truly mine.
Just life shedding
its pale replica.

 
I walk around the river,
several times.
Here in the shadows
no miracles occur.
And the sun, the sun –
my visible wife.
Nothing more….
Neither woman,
nor dragon nor Buddha.
Just a picture, a memory.
A luminous beautiful woman.
The queen of the summer.
A bloom bouncing in the joyful.
Wind sound passes around me.
The moon and stars
meet midway, to slice my void
And I wonder…..
Does the sun ever rise again?

Sitting in the coffee shops alone.
I begin thinking of old girlfriends.
A thousand colours
and all shades of blue.
Everything starts over,
a fumble and a fiddle.
And rooms getting darker.
Their faces and veins,
and hair bouncing
like a horse’s mane – linger on.
Sometimes another moment.
Sometimes another night.
So much work
and shades of insanity.
I tell myself to think
of something else.
And order another cup of coffee.