A Poem and a Photograph

Chained

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

without you.

Without you,

I loose the straight line that connects me to the center of all

good I’ve discovered in forty years of walking the roads,

without you.

Without you,

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,

without you.

Without you,

I’ve often imagined my days, getting used to the impossible

thought you bear, like the cross where a dream dies alone,

without you.

Without you,

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

without you

—or you without me.

A Poem and a Photograph

NJ Sun and Sky - 12025

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.

A Sunday Desiderata

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Desiderata

Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

(Story of the poem HERE)

A Poem (and a Photograph)

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

A Poem (and a Photograph)

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.

A Poem (and a Photograph)

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Simple Gifts

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,
freely given
by a philanthropic deity
unconcerned with the value
we affix to things.

A Poem (and a Photograph)

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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,
until
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
treasures
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.