Quoting the Cosmos

I sit here under
a thumbnail moon -
knowing you hang
your night’s shade
by his same trail

Each moment spent
silent, without you
- counted in starbursts
pinned to midnight eclipse

Quoting the cosmos:
The infinity of our love
shares this heavenly
canopy with the Gods-

Yet you worry your
posted letters.

But the lemon tides
wash clean the American red,
cleansing your palate of
rich foreign delicacies

The sandalwood winds
carry cross the shores
bolstering the
redwood mailbox-

At the end of my
lonely lilac garden
it leans indecorously,
but patiently,
awaiting your
first class
heart.

~all rights reserved

what would it take?

what words are left to be said
besides those that are better left in silence?

what if I could create with charcoal and paper,
lines to connect from here within, to there, without-
taking shape in dimensions, beyond this second level banality

would it be that I could capture the world
in freeze frame time, still shots cropped, and
dropped on canvas mattes of:

children’s sunny candid smiles and
happy grubby hands, reaching-
new born birds hatching robin blue, blind yet still begging-
tender spring shoots birthing, pale
and frail to verdant-
swollen creeks gurgle, splashing
a melodic song skipping over their beds-

would you tell me if the whisper of pencil against pad could overshadow the silence, the
quietude captured in each miracle indigo blue moment,

or as the jet point wears to a dull ashen ache,
as my crisp stream of words slows to a slow curdled trickle,

will wrinkles crease these hands that reach to grasp,
to gather in earnest, time and space, as if days long lost, cry for all our
fleeting tomorrows?

or, could you read my silence, the
words better left unsaid
in the beauty of what flows
from my weary hands?

I have always only had my words, you
have always only had your silence, if
I had lines to connect from here to there, would you tell me,
what would it take?

~all rights reserved

(Source: encanta-e-faz-bem, via void-dance)

La Bota de Vino

Bursting at the seams, torn open-
la bota de vino, worn through from too much time shifting between hands and lips

No longer can we wet our thirst, soothe our parched desperations from it’s succulent sweet wine - for it has splashed upon the ground to swill around our lost feet.

Words now a murky pool - once a crisp clean line, three shadows deep - stain my darkened mind.

Yet, you are still what I desire.

I kick up what once was dust and find only clay - shaped to a figure moulded (im)partial, bleeding some shade of red, words I once rolled upon my tongue.

I had hoped you’d understand, I guess I misread.

The sound of the whispering dove mocks me as she wakes, taunting me with her knowing contented call - I have long been laying lost, pondering the waning moon.

Desire still burns, as does the rising sun, clearing away the early fog. Dew glistens as glory crowning tender princely shoots of strong spring buds. I ache with new bourne emotion; fresh sweet wine to share.

Busted seams, torn open, la bota de vino is worn through. Sweet wine will ruin an old skin, split it apart and spill once again.

Only a new skin will preserve the new, sweet wine.

I had hoped that you’d understand. “Garzón, a glass for one”.

~all rights reserved

(Source: incessantdelirium)

Where once we knew two,
It is now just I, alone -
Eyes hollow, now dry.

(Source: browndresswithwhitedots, via henri-charriere)