Here’s Where I Am
After forty years on the road,
I am coming home to you,
my angel queen.
Ahead I see your castle-home
on top of the world
sitting in front of the perfect dawning of the sun–
daily hopes arising out of the blue
coral depths of your pupils.
My steps guided by an ancient calling
–like sirens in the mist–
a song I’ve heard
rustling through your hair
while kissing your skin.
A scent of satisfaction
inundates the road I walk
and sooth these lungs
you helped me fathom.
The road has opened up considerably
and I notice, for the first time,
the flowers that rise up
to touch the butterflies
suspended in mid-air
coloring each side.
There are lights
on all your windows
as I turn the last corner of the road.
I cross the garden
you fertilized with patient years;
I see the open door
and I walk into
this holy space and the warmth
of your internal fire
envelopes my tired bones
making them new again.
I am reborn as I cross the door,
I become a new man with your embrace and
holding hands we walk
up the last few steps.
Rejoicing in the welcome
you extend, I bring
my soul, may hands and my joys
to our bed. To sleep,
finally, to sleep in you, next to you
as you sleep in a womb of your creation.
Our home in God, blessed
by the children we’ll create
out of the gentle collisions of our cells
in the afternoon of the first day
that precedes the eternity
I’ve come home,
darling, I am home.
Home to run through
every room, open all the windows
and let life in.
I bring life with me
after a whole life of not knowing
until you showed me all I missed.
All of life I missed you–now I know
as I arrive home I bring the truth
in the inner linings of my eyes
and under my fingertips.
From under an arched window
high in our tower
we look at the new world
that spreads to the horizon all around
a world of possibilities
where the sun and the moon
the million stars that light heaven’s way.
I am home. Finally arrived
to meet your eyes. Home
made of stone, clay and the rituals
that made possible the history of the world
from beginning to today.
I am home,
home at last
here’s where I am
Image: Landscape viewed from the New Bridge, Puente Nuevo, in Ronda, Malaga province, Andalusia, Spain.
Photograph by: Carl Curman
Sober Truths — for Viola
Today I open darkness
each hour when I write
the divine wet poems
your virgin skin of me demands.
Soulmate of mine,
I present these sober truths
lit by candlelight
in the middle of our day
–the middle point of strength,
where most energy resides.
The sober truth of you, thirty-five
springs of roaming butterflies
mother of Matthew, saint
full of sin, hope of humanity
and of me. My past and future
lover, my friend.
As the mist descends
over a skyline of possibilities
not yet discerned, you stand in front,
soft and colorful, embracing life,
my second painting, my first love,
my angel in the early morning light.
Image Title: Portrait of a Young Woman. By: Oscar Rejlander (English 1813-1875) Date: ca. 1860 George Eastman House Collection
Walking Home. Almost Night.
Following my shadow, I walk away
from intermittent sunlight and faith
recounting events dismembered by time.
One by one coincidental cracks
appear on the icy shell where I hide–
swimming naked–in tall grass.
I follow the shadow, step by step,
retracing the route, outlined in ancient
times, into dark space and beyond.
Holding a dying old hand–
unrecognized–by the many selves
disconnecting me from the inside.
Chased by death, I don’t walk fast.
I like the smell of death at my back.
I look around. No one’s in sight. Alone
in darkness, I resist the urge to feel pity
tonight, on my behalf.
Turning a corner, loosing by chance
the dark outline I’ve walked besides,
a passing light illuminates my stride.
WHEN YOU WAKE ME
When you wake me, you wake me up to myself.
The innocence of your smile
caresses my eyes
and a tranquil hush remains with my skin,
you shake me and passion comes alive
in a subterranean mansion my soul erects.
Your touch transforms me into a being of light. I enter
through each of your pores, illuminating
buried beneath the core of your life.
I become a river, then, a torrent of sweat
that irrigates the sliver of earth
where we harvest life by the armful and
we grow old together
watching our children laugh and play.
Image: time ©2010 .through my eyes./renee. All rights reserved. Please visit her Flickr Gallery.
I HEAR THE SONG
Young man, sitting on rags
looks up at me and asks:
“Hey bro, how’s life in the concrete jungle treating you?”
“Fine, just fine,” I don’t respond and go on.
I hear the notes beneath the weight of a song, unable to fly,
— curled up in the tip of the tongue.
The notes bounce off the hardened walls.
Sounds written in the thick air of canyons,
carved by melodies in stone.
Buried inside, deep inside
each grain of the sand life walks on — I hear the song.
I hear the song.