Unsung...

The poet died, so very young
amid echoes of a passioned voice
a voice gone still, its songs unsung

now lost in the visions he'd brung
the sadness revealed in his choice
the poet died, so very  young.

An agonistes, wildly flung
upon his petard, was slowly hoist
a voice gone still, its songs unsung

Did the sweetest tones of his  tongue
find a needy world's blank invoice?
The poet died, so very young

as if truth burned, deeply stung
cleaved cheeks,and left his eyes too moist
a voice gone still, its songs unsung.

like Homer's flawed heroes, come unstrung
a love spilled in worldly rejoice--
the poet died, so very young--
a voice gone still, its songs unsung.




in memory of Julian-- Victory Gin

uma manhã escura

listen here

City of the Forgotten

Along a noisy roadway

comes a very quiet place

a city of the forgotten(--)

where the buildings stand in rows;

like guide posts for the winds

it does not shiver cold

or despair burning heat

stones without voice, heedless

of time and change.

This old and public place,

home for mosses and lichen

greened by drizzles in spring, later

wears a cloak of white

no footprints to reveal

the comings and goings of love.

And beneath the fallen fluff

the unswept leaves of fall

cover seeds, fallen birds nests

and petals first, last spring

and beneath yet all of these

are lessons from deeper reasons passed

I watch among the buzz of flies

flaps of rising birds, in silence

that teaches of life – a precious season…

leaves no permanent scars.

third night...

For the third night in a row
a halo around the moon, bright planets
and stars I know, still where i remember
to look, and wonder

how similar the world can be
whether i breathe easily or
simply without notice

how outwardly a world so calm
within i am a child, eyes filled by lights;
a smooth- faced boy fights to know the facts,
a man of bold philosophy...and now

a victim of faith --so assured of outcomes;
grown happy for Love
even Love i have lost, speaks to me
in this language of stars.