Saturday, December 9, 2017

Swallowing Letters

Swallowing letters of tongues not mine,
Only a vehicle through to a human,
His soul.

But can the soul digest vowels, consonants, and intonations flowing out the mouth?

Is the beloved's look not enough?
Or the gift of the morning song?

Take away my tongue,
Take away overbearing intellect, analysis, stratagems, and dead-end narratives,
So you only receive the flickering, pure and honest flame within.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Without Tongues

Earth swallows our tongues,

sky steals our hands,

not even sign language,

can imprison us,

yet deaf ears are ours to seal the silence.

A rose stands suspended between us,

but do not call it a rose,

leave it nameless,

unshackled.

The noun that forgets needs vocabulary,

therein grow cold iron bars of definition;

heavy weight of history and culture,

assignment into fixed housing,

death of forgetfulness and reinvention,

callus of chronic confusion.

So we sow our mouths with colourless thread,

to see our underlying Truth,

beneath lavender skies,

emotion and experience,

uncaptured,

floating.

I cannot translate your tongue,

you cannot mine,

impressed with nothing,

cured of linguistic ailment,

we are free in these open fells of Lapland.


Sunday, January 29, 2017

January

January is leaking out of my wrists,
a dream fading in the morning,
now the frost retreats,
and here emerges diamond intuition.

I may sleep,
but my skin knows too much,
braiding with the walls,
weaving in and out of your ears,
laying a trail of black earth,
keeping me fed,
in mind.

I could have drowned in the bathtub of me,
mourning the loss of a month,
and useless puddles of thought,
but I rinse and learn,
and write:

She is a living miracle,
a vegetable miracle.

I plant diamonds in their navels as they sleep,
what grows?

I am skipping diamonds in a lake,
full of whose tears?

A canoe made of their bones,
from all those that never left these shores out of fear,
only to be the vessel that carried us over to the other side,
where the Prophet awaits in Orphalese,
to return back Home.

Your soul,
infinite levels that neither go up nor down,
made of nothing and everything,
on the edge of our bed,
we leap off going nowhere and everywhere.

Diamond intuition till the end. 



Interiority

Irises grew out of my spine,
bubbling to the surface,
the Himalayas of my belief flooded with turquoise.

This purification seeped into my red streams,
burning like acid,
inferior-superiority plague to finally arrive at interiority,
where You are the centre of my attention.

Sunday Evening Rain

Each night,
I plant a fig tree next to your house,
she only thrives up against your warmth,
sometimes,
unsure where to sow my seeds,
so I save them on this rainy night,
place them beneath my pillow,
I may wake engulfed in your forest,
somewhere between your ribs.

In your absence,
what else to do,
this is taxing on my soul,
but you cannot force the rose bud to unfurl before her time.

Any aggression is raping destiny,
leaving me in a puddle of black milk.

I miss you all the time,
not knowing who you are.

Tears,
no different than rain,
the sky weeps,
because none will fall from my face.

I beg your pomegranate treasure to bring you closer.

Sunshine is spilling from my breasts,
but my mouth is straight,
quiet horizon with the two Lions in the distance,
standing guard over the hinterland of my Self.

Your hand on the brass door knob may break me,
so what would I want to do with a thief.

I am the antique tea cup,
drink from me,
and you will be the King of Spain. 


More dream poetry

He said, "You have this twinkling in your eyes. You held your head high in that photo, but not high above us, you held it high for your causes."

He came into my bed,
we never broke the law,
he said, "I can't tell you about my relationship to you."

untitled

a thunderstorm erupts in my chest tonight,
to love a man without wanting him,
an affection that straddles the valley between the peaks of my lips,
they do not belong to him,
but my time does.

The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man by Carl Jung

Jung told me,
the void outside is true,
the drought in my throat is real.

As uncertain as a harvest of roots,
our conscious psyche is brimming with volatility,
an electron thinking all things,
its servant.

We are dissecting the poem that is us,
bringing us closer to death,
and further from faith.

Taking a leap back to You.
I won't ask to see Your face,
or the tapestry of Your palms.

Let Your invasive vines fill the white of my eyes,
Your scent is everywhere,
lest I forget.

Untitled

my bones are not Corinthian columns around you,
a body fills with honey,
so that you may suck me dry within you.

why did God give me a chest cavity?
the best paradox,
to give one an empty box,
so full,
bursting with you.

one breath at a time,
I could undo myself before you,
so you see me as I am,
that your love will help me.

Sunday, November 6, 2016

Tributaries

Staring at Your reflection on the surface from the ocean floor,
beneath the waters of my heart,
tributaries grow,
leading to You,
invisible creation,
my only Love.

Dream Poetry

He sat across from me at the cafe,
he told me the eyes of God stared back at him.

The chariot waiting for him outside.

Don't marry her,
marry me.

Transit Poetry

Fountains of black milk flowed out of my hands,
pooled around their hands,
one interlaced with the other,
the ground reverberated the strength of their stare,
now she holds his knee with her left hand,
a kiss on her blond rivers,
soft upon his lips.

Saturday, August 27, 2016


Tantalus

An elephant’s foot came crashing down,
frozen for millennia showered by weeping glaciers.

Their cool touch reaches my mouth by the stream,
as I drink history in the mornings,
by nightfall, the visions run in my veins.

I stand in this glacial valley littered with sub alpine flowers, purple and red,
silenced by its poetry,
the starry night,
and the glowing white characters.

The snow clouds cling to the mountains like a child before departure,
I see a unicorn,
I see a bear.

By dawn slightly morphed to match the characters of my dream,
the wolf,
the humming bird.

Further below,
the stream grows thick into falls,
falling in love here.
Lake Lovely Water cups our turquoise dreams into her palms praying for us all.

Hovering above at dusk,
I see her making the fire so that she may see herself better in an earthly dress as she tip toes closer to her Beloved.

Disintegration Anxiety

I was born overflowing with colour in my flesh,
woven by tired hands and dying eyes,
symmetrical knots double wefted,
forbidden from unraveling.

Years waiting to disintegrate inside you,
discoloured and disheveled.

This wool decays into dust,
I need you.

Wednesday, June 1, 2016