to knees...

It has the feeling of falling through the floor,
a descent from obvious to subliminal,
by dreams that rise in smoke
cling to ceiling into an invisible fall
soaking into us, through skin into marrow,

where we breathe them within;
blend them into physical essence
perfecting thought into tissue--
to live as we live, die when we die--

and what of sorrows so deep as marrow
so intrinsic as blood and breath;
what of the sadness that descends
covers us as night: in endless boundless depths
where spirit flickers like last candle,
where only the love we have created
covers the raw state of existence.

When we are alone with empty hands,
hands that once held a child... what of life
when it becomes an empty space, airless
useless even to carry an echo...
What of the storm that never leaves us dry
whips us with painful hard rain

Once in childhood dreams, through a window
I saw Grandmother alone and cold
driven to knees by hard rain--Now

the dreamer-child
brought awake by rains, to knees;
lips move to wordless prayers,
knelt in hard rain
looking into an empty window.

captured...

art credit hohli @ www.hohli.com


Evening Sun was stuck in a tree
gleamed with all of its might
piercing every leafless space
curled upon limbs great and small

From across slowly swaying barley,
above stalking corn in sensuous beards
between the vining tomatoes, as I pinch
ripe succulence yet to be

through thicker glass of kitchen windows
painted cinnamon apple and cobbler memories
where the evening flowers have begun to ooze
an exchange of honeys with this busy hive;
it is stuck there, a stained glass bundle of life.

The old crown upon grassy rise, sky wand
above a gentle swale, a prison of a golden glow
I would not see so quickly go, not until
the Moon is ready for her stage, and I have

taken my place with the throng of hungry stars
each in our own ways needy, in thirst
for the kiss of a moonbeam, to be held
silent caress of night air and the heart
tries to capture its silver lover.

warm spring...

Warmth of ancient waters
risen from heart of earth
pulsed from arteries
beneath the skin of the world;

in a balm of peaceful thoughts-
as if returned to first awakening,
cocooned as a womb of birth-
reborn into a moment of our choosing.

Touched by air, wet skin sheds
wetness leaves to cooling kiss,
touches of winds, delight to skin;
heat blends in movement

as the moment passed becomes
expectation... I see you.
First in mind's eyes, wish-like
then full before me, wet and dry
risen from immersion; ready,
for the amazement --
of a lover's touch.

Carlos' dream...

I spoke to Carlos in a dream
as the first feather-in heaven fell-
upon the calling of a mother's tear...
welled in her soul, a sadness
unto the heart of God;

one Mother's heart
made sadness in His eyes.
While cries of all humanity dulled
like whispered waves, this
yet-fallen tear reached within
the limitless love, pieced an unending patience
deeper than boundless wells of forgiveness.

So it was there, in a moment held
in His eyes, yet to be past; within
a curled filament of her pain--there it fell,
feather weight to crush pillars of time
the first feather...

fell upon the call;
and His great sadness rose
like a hand in kindness,
to softly touch one cheek.


Inspired by- Carlos Drummond de Andrade
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9jH1cXBryA

in spring

We make a curtain of your hair,
all calm and still,
breath becomes the wind
to caress our lashes

eyes find delight of closeness,
yet your lips seem so far away from
the piercing shrill of the too noisy world,
from the pull of all we'd need to do;
time makes a fall
into a moment as deep as a wish,
as full as a springtime moon at dusk
when your eyes find only me,
and you...are all I will see...

how much...

I missed you and the Moon
at the end of a world-soaked day

drenched in wasting minutiae
of other folk's woes, tired; then
I paused when the journey home
seemed unending, and fate
was a giant's hand swatting me fly-like,
pushing away a twig in a stream.

I missed you and the Moon

as afternoon curled inside evening
even as I pushed the wall of time
begged it to stop the closing vise
and something shoulder-tapped my turn
to upward eyes to squint into
pale blue and wispy cotton, wind shredded
canopy that held...a soft golden shoulder
in silhouette upon a bed of blue,
as if to whisper entre nous she'd glanced

and then, just you were missed.

So I stood above the noise and crowd
spoke softly, aloud...and told how much.

and we speak...

We speak to God
in frailty of our means
to see and hold life; lost in the midst-
existence most powerful, reality-
life is a fragile nail grip on a glass slope-
time is gravity, we leap into laughter
but ever descend, holding the momentary -
like sands blown in the east wind; simply taken
to empty our palms--- we see memories
happiness, bitters that makes sweetness

and we speak to God.

From an endless stream of hope
despite all obstacles in a rational mind,
when reason dams the stream, reason
that damns the sense of the spirit---yet
it is in sense of spirit that we know the self
it is in the self that we cannot hide the wish

to extend beyond the pull of tides further
than sight of sun at bendings of the world;
deeper than the swimming swirls of light
from a past we cannot measure, flowing
into a future we cannot see,
bound firmly in a moment we cannot hold--

and we speak to God.

To consecrate a power of creation-
the power of love; to converse
with the part of us we would keep,
that which we wish to endure--
and so, we speak...