A trace of sun, and eyes no longer cover the clouds. Days and weeks pass into dust. And what of my nostalgic home? Is it waiting for the coming of the northern wind – to shape the grass or trees? Or a soft goddess, to wet the tongue.- over the warm rays of the sun? I am in no rush, and everything soon will be built. Then, my bones will shine and I will reach the ocean. No longer sitting in loneliness. I will say to you – one must go to the place where the grasshoppers are hard to catch. And blood no longer just flows, but circulates, like an event in the sky.
The sky is falling asleep, floating away despite perfect knowing. Softly softly moving. With it goes the threads of dreams, that link the heart, the soul…. and you and me.
With gray hair, but no cane. I walked around the grottoes. A souls festival, the Buddha’s life day. Then, a birthday wish. Not to think of myself, but that beauty beyond the sea. And the end of my journey.
Morning and evening, summer walking – an enchanted way. Smiling from your presence, your raptured eyes to a gray sky. And when I am in the moment, drifting like white clouds. I am with you, a thing of mystery is the soul. And everywhere, we take our ways.
Beyond the blue, where you disrobe. The skin of a woman, such pale yellow light. A summer’s heat arched out in pleasure, no masks are needed. A night plucked, from a thousand or more.
When I kissed you, it tasted like a poem. A port for which I longed. Those dismal years behind me, now a blossom’s tint, born again. And when I leave this world, I will take our love madness to another place. So you can place a single kiss upon my lips, and so it begins again.
The world may not be on my side. But each morning the sun rises, and finds me for a kiss. A nature that gives desire, and a want for better days.
Around me, a tangle of fear thinking and night blind-stars. Yet, the door is so wide open, your voice calling my notice to its song. Like a guide from another place, without condition or agenda. I rest in the grace of our world, we are free.
Old white wine, right down to the last drop. I can see the distant neon lights, through the faded blinds. Malfunctioning, and only a single-performance left. In a moment, like a Bukowski poem everything turned blue. This one teaches, that one teaches and everyone becomes a poet. Like in a Hollywood hotel. So, I picked up my pen and began to write. But not about last years calendar on the wall. Or whether cat’s, sound the same in different languages. From another time, another place, I heard your voice – ‘There will be trouble at t’ mill’. So, I decided to wait to write an immortal poem. And will learn the language of the cats, if you tell me, you love me.
A Wandering Poet 