uma manhã escura

uma manhã escura

após o sono

antes do café

antes, de me apresentar ao nascer do sol

há uma manhã escura

um momento em que herdo as estrelas

quando eu me deixo fazer nada

exceto te amar, é

um tempo em que brilho de dentro ...

quando sou tranquilo relâmpagos

sobe à minha pele, assim de repente, ciente

o Amor é o fogo no qual nos queimamos.

Amar..amar, solenemente queimar…

dark morning

after sleep

before coffee

before I submit to sunrise

there is dark morning

a time I inherit the stars

when I let myself do nothing

except to love you; it is

a time when I glow from within…

when I am quiet lightning

it rises to my skin, so suddenly aware

Love is the fire in which we all burn

To love...to love, to solemnly burn

Note: for the Portuguese version i am deeply indebted to the assistance of Mariza Godinho Góes
Muito obrigado Mariza .

listen here

of the rivers...

Near whispers of Angels

words they’ve used to mend my heart

come like a song of truths to realize

a moment meant for keeping

Floating away now,

as if adrift from land

taken by rivers beneath the sea,

yet the compass in my spirit

does not relinquish its home

A water drop remembers

it is of the rivers, the rivers

bend but know

there is one place to end and begin.

Soft words yet reveal a hard purpose

and you, are winds…lifted to clouds

a breeze after the rains, and breath

remembered in my skin.

silent adoration

There was death in one dimension
as if the sky inhaled
and all earth was forgotten.
[Such  are dreams or auguries?]

Time is a dancer
who holds a woman close
until her breath bathes his face,
a pulse of her desires
makes a fire-filled trance.


He finds a common will
accepts her obedient gift
pressed in silent adoration
a milonga of the spirit...a zen of dance

In one dimension
all earth was forgotten
[such  auguries fill my dreams]...

four haiku

softly on my cheek...
the wind and your hands


the old woman smiles...
into the sounds of children


looking into your garden,
snow without footprints


on the phone with my lover
long distance...distance

of all we pretend

This is not a love poem
nor is it without love, it speaks
as if the memory of a star-
woven in the dust that makes us
bold embers that burn
and fill cold darkness

this is not a love poem for we
are born of love, and the fear
of no love, such creatures we
a soul that slipped inside the shell
into an awakening; rebels at grip of time
rejoices in the moments that
race to fall like wind-scattered sands--

the spirit writes a poetry of happiness
etched upon the essence of senses
an unbending will, the boundless place within
defiant of all we pretend--where we only know
to make from loss and emptiness
a greatness of love