POEM #—I DON’T KNOW…
Pretty much the way of the title my life without you goes:
‘Not knowing where the light of the world went’ when I am
I loose the straight line that connects me to the center of all
good I’ve discovered in forty years of walking the roads,
I don’t have to contend with friction or images of conflict
that show up in this mirrored instant we hold to each other.
Without you, all expectations, yearnings, expressions of lust,
are orphans born into the world, meaningless thoughts
going nowhere or disappearing into the darkness outside,
I’ve often imagined my days, getting used to the impossible
thought you bear, like the cross where a dream dies alone,
is also you without me, the letting go of the hand, the tearing
of heart tissue, the void in the eyes I become when I am
—or you without me.
Love of My Lives
I am still your man, here still.
And after centuries measured
by small epiphanies,
my arms remain open,
my eyes your eyes seek.
Walking apart or abreast
my soul is complete
only when yours is near,
the spirit healed by your kiss.
Lovers, praying partners,
and friends we’ve been,
even secret members
of the same crime family.
Dancers in a cosmic ball
whose ancient rhythms
only the broken-hearted perceive.
Enemies and allies we’ve been—
fellow travelers in the far east.
Here I am, your man still,
still holding on to your hand.
Here to make reality
a holy promise made
the Spring I was shaken awake
—to meet once and for all
with clean hands, clear eyes,
open hearts and a blessing
for each other upon our lips.
in a tunnel
of dark thought.
by the magic
woven by a child
at his own
My own smile
by his light.
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.
Lost ballon—colored blue—
searching for the infant hand it lost,
descends from heaven
upon the path tired soles walk
in the darkness of night.
A bell from a distant tower
dissolves into song,
after a clear moment
discovered between lines
of an ancient paragraph.
The voice of a lover
—abducted by old thoughts—
heard again for the first time,
naked words, dressed in white,
unchained, over water purified.
Simple gifts, ours for the asking,
by a philanthropic deity
unconcerned with the value
we affix to things.
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.