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.

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]...