I carry a home in my heart. For roots can be fragile. And I never believed in the repitition of shells. But you gave me a reality show. Something moving, across the empty space. And as you kissed my eyes, I dreamed of a poem – and the woman to walk with.
The magpie said to me “Careful, don’t step on that long black hair, it is too close between grief and anger” Plump with pumping blood, I was filled with shifting concern. So, I told the magpie “Unique is something to hold on to” And we both got lost in a moment of flesh and emotion.
Running in slow motion, against the tide. A quite warmth and the smells of summer. I hear your body’s fires, ready for my touch. As high as I dare, and I think you are pleased.
Should desires always be fulfilled on any soil. Or must we wait for a great grandfather’s time. The stars know everything, and the sleepwalkers are drawn to the moon. But my hand is still dreaming.
We are small, the smallest stone in a field of stones. Huddled in a tiny interior, lit by black. Walking only where stilts are safe. Somewhere, the black and the light meet. A fusion of the two. Dividing man from man, and woman from woman. This is the silence of living, and a changed skin. This is the way.
There grows the moments. A ladder to another place, as large as life. My poets eyes will stretch through the words. And fend-off the burning gentry and sea-ghosts. Until once again, I see your smile. That breeds those longing eyes and sensuous love.
The apples must throw their seeds, in this season. And tears will role and shine. But I will breathe in new flowers. They are human hearts, or blue stars if you like. Intimate and erotic. An echo of summer, as life passes by.
Seasons change their socks. One foot at a time. A summer image of my wife, in a deserted hospital ward. She left before me. You who have died, know what I mean.
Summer grasses along the roadside. Blossoming wild flowers, that fill me with longing to see you again. And everything in the cry of the cicadas. In a moment, lung-shot batons full of tasteless glass. That cough dull, an ever so dull relentless beat. To a wolf’s cry, tearing the butterfly’s wings. While we hug safety, and abandon honest tears to own.
Every day, I play with the light of the sky. The lust, the lack of trust and the turning tatters of my life.
How sad the sea must have felt, when we departed. Like an octopus, tentacles sliced. Still longing for those rustic baskets of kisses.
Yet, as the sun rises you are still here. In the wind that whirls the dark leaves. And in my rice bowl, laced with your heart’s bones. So, I send you my words, teasing you, touching you. And will tell the octopus, that everything lost will be recovered, soon enough.
A Wandering Poet 