There is another conversation that we must have Dear...
it is about you and the way you come and go.
AS you come~
The way you breathe life
into dull and unfeeling words,
there is a bit of god in you
the last time we had
an increment to this talk, we left it
a bit weepy and glad for moments shared.
As if an obligation to grab a piece of fleeting time
and hold it to a greater beam than the brilliant sun
or glows more delicate than the pale heart of the moon,
it was the light of understanding.
So quiet here now, in the place reserved for the next word;
so still that I can hear the breath of bitter winds
and hear crows in frozen fog on the edge of a Russian winter
and i must tell you, there is an ache in the East.
Peace and reason fly like flurries of morning snow
doubts dot roofs that came with the Soviet fist.
A durable blue Orthodox glimmers to the slow turn of tomorrow
Faith is still here in thoughts that curl and rehearse
like steam and smoky vapors.
They are such un-confident actors, afraid
they will not impress when we know
there is no greater measure than truth, no gaudier robe
than honesty...and no place to hide a tear.
and AS you go~
Today, as I see your deep river eyes
as the wells of mine grow shallow, and
glaze over; frozen by helplessness in reveal
when time chases us, and we heel like humble sheep
no way to keep the guise of self-direction.
It nips and barks until the chill air of living winter
bites deeper than we knew, and takes pieces.
We float at the will of wind and wave and all else
that plays the greater gravity; it is as if we sink
beneath the skin of the sea
where so many things flash hot and see coldly,
so many toothed and fanged fates await
did I tell you...
the beauty the words made
when you asked, and I answered with such earnest ways
my eyebrows raised in effort. I scratched the covers
of virgin pages and made such lyrical noises-
worms in the dawn face the coming of hungry birds and drying sun
how day became the end of a dream of life... and here,
I speak again, I am the spider ready to spin
and it is far from dawn, three AM and
the world still divides by half, and again...
Sweet poetry, thy name may be
a brief breath and slight memory
when signed among the wall of stars,
but in the brief flame carried upon the human frame
the filament bears the intense burn of the spirit
and I think the light goes on and on.
It seems so odd to say good bye, when what is needed
is a comfortable chair for a deep , and satisfied smile;
In a fond thought of the sea
that keeps so much until it surrenders all in time
and it strands the leavings of epochs gone before.
There is rest upon altars of wet sand; and the ruins
of earlier times meet the curiosity of this day.
The sleeping things awaken to a new place in the sun
and the awful moment of taking comes undone.
There is naught but the sands, words blessed upon winds,
and the eternal tides.
