She, within...

There should be a word I could say

that would instantly let me know you

a word that would translate all –

your sadness and beauty, the tree of your life.

Transcend the mosaic of a woman

shell and marvels- the sense of she within;

when love is a forged steel, bringing

conquest and surrender to the most tender

enduring moments man can make.

There is mystery behind the eyelashes

the focused views they adorn, the worlds they  filter

vastness as within motes and specks

that float in a sunbeam.

There should be a word, a key from my lips

into the treasured vaults…  of your heart.

Dreams( excerpts)

There in tangled rail yards, on tracks of time

lines upon lines of them: Cars of dreams.

Dreams from south traveled north

laded from harsh docks and jangled chains,

dreams wet with woman’s tears.

Rainbows of dreams--

golden from the gentle kiss of sun;

pale shades --

Blacks like ebony night;

reds held in  dune songs.

There were dreams that came to sudden end,

dreams that roamed and meandered;

 slowly ...like bends of great rivers.

Dreams ... like faded sounds; echoed  train calls

in mountains- -

Dreams from deep souls of mother’s grief

in emptied hands of lost and taken worlds.

They were there in disarray- some,

in ordered files and closeness- others;

 ----

Full of cargoes that no longer have any use

relics now, signs of earlier times, abandoned schedules.

Dreams  ...that followed steamy night, 

still drift in wait like flower scents

for love and answer; all, all

are there in rail yards of disuse.

Upon overgrown and sunken steels

dilapidated stocks of life, and skeleton shells.

“If only” they say, if only… a wind,

a wrinkle in smooth sheets of time, if only…

and in sleep that comes to hold us

a way of time like ice awaiting thaw

in restless states of heart and memory

in place- they swim against the stream…they cannot be still

for if stilled, they cannot be; they rail upon rails

and stir within seasons, in gusts and blows;

in night storms that warm possibility.

Like great golden bolts that ease clouds…they believe

fire will overcome the gravity of night.

Inspired "Sueños de trenes," Estravagario, 1958

by Pablo Neruda

“Train Dream”

Translated by Clayton Eshleman

moody-ku

swimming in the stream...
a still minnow

rising clouds...
angels climb a  rainbow


raised by spring gusts
a woman's skirt ...
old man's slow smile

a lover  leaves,
watching
cherry blossoms fall

heard
in the sound of your voice...
the taste of a kiss

passage

the beginning of a storm
a subtle thing, more felt than seen;
leaf tips turn, a  long clouded sky
seems more certain to descend and touch.
Aromatic earth lies open as if in wait.

The end of a storm, quiet falls like
a curtain upon the stage; the last bolt of fire
and last belly roars fill distant peaks.
It was all the matters in between
that shook ground and resounded
through to the root of us- and everything
seen, touched, tasted-- so different; our
wet skins basted in coolness
as sky and surface mate in elastic
air.
We notice a quiet surrender
upward flow of new clouds
reformed sun to prism-ed arcs.

Yet it is such as we, revel in the spent and shared;
a blend like soft summer winds and dripped leaves.
We can sometimes know a thing of  infinite wonder
how life passes...like the edges of a storm.

a shorter race

When life is a too brief page of poetry,

a start that climbs to interruption;

words yet rising to the high point  

an unmet crescendo of song.

Simply not long enough it seems

to meet the reach of dreams, the utter want…

the deep passion for things not done

We can see the race against time;

apace, never won, for it covers like a skin.

Yet we contend for it is all we know-

just as the voice within- it carries our truths.

Until it leaves and just the others race on,

those done and those yet to be…found in untold mystery

as faith and spirit speak of light.

When life is a deep ache, an emptiness;

a dreaded silence at the end of love

by two's

An  howling wind
rends shredded sails and turned
the sea into walls of white fury
 black depths beckon
as if there were no path but descent.

Still in a dream of safe harbor
a boat surrenders itself
from vessel into an Ark
whose ventures wait in
a dark and clouded horizon
and courage sings death
a dirge drawn of merciless water.

Hope has been gathered by two's:
woman's wait, man's dream remembered
reside in a place of fond agreement
while he and she exchange
breath and pulse on opposite sides
of storm and night.

kept...

Sometimes a drift is the only sign

as I go where the sea flows,  read

fishtail swirls and wind dimples,

attempt to understand the pulse of waves.

The sea speaks, even from great distance,

I can never truly lose her- as if some part,

some inseparable part of happiness-

necessary, like breath before laughter.

I find a thought of the sea

in billowed clouds sails, in wind swept treetops;

siren call of her voice rises in pauses

between spoken words and ambient sound.

Just as I’d stand on trembled shores

try to reach beyond edge of water and sky

only to imagine- she is still there

rolling on the rounding belly of the world

on turn to the place I stand but only if I too

spin with pregnant swells of land .

Wandered above gentle touches; waves to shore

a rush of wind becomes her exhale;

misty air a salty kiss, and mind

brings a breathless immersion

I can never truly lose her, for she

is the sweetness of air