Wednesday, December 17, 2008


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Sunday, December 14, 2008


Eventually, the undeparted dead,

Alive without, long since gone within,

Shall arise to feel both love and pain.

There are no dead that cannot live again.

Even those long buried shall begin
Rising up towards tears and rage and need.


Emptiness costs a bit extra:
In distant horizons there is peace.
Given two windows on a whitewashed world,
How could one not long for the sea?
The soul wings it out to the horizon,
Yet stays contented in a well-ordered room.

Sing to the gauze-covered shallows,
Inlets and coves and the open sea!
Xylophones tingle on porches unseen.


Eighty-three is happy to be here.

Inclination makes her so inclined.

Gifts of temperament, like gifts of grace,

Hang the veil of choice across her face,

Thus making will the uncaused cause of kind.

Yet one wears clothes that one was born to wear.

There is much, of course, that she must bear,

Having lost a portion of her mind.

Recent trains are difficult to trace,

Ending up in alleys dark and blind.

Even so, there’s much she still holds dear.


Early on, there's a point to regret:
In creative pain, one can make changes.
Grief is a wild, foolish, helpless rebellion,
Heart against stone, desire smashing against
The locked fact, the impenetrable event,
Yielding nothing but the wash back into life.

For one who grieves, there's no point to regret:
One lives through pain, it's not a time for changes,
Undoing in one's heart what one must accept in life,
Repositioning the precise stones one smashes and smashes against.


Challenging the veil does not come cheap.
One gets to know the provenance of hunger,
Living off the energy of wonder,
Unwilling to trade ecstasy for sleep.
More than life, one must want to be
Bestride the instant of the revelation,
Uniting image and imagination,
Seeing first what now the world might see.
Dread and longing dance across one's dreams,
Alive with hope for charismatic schemes.
Years wearied, wasted, wait impatiently.


Alexandra is not one, but many.
Life flows through her boundaries like a river,
Entering her while exiting another.
X-rays show one, but we know of plenty:
Ancestors mingling with descendents;
Near relatives pouring through the sluices;
Death, the loyal angel of her graces,
Resting momently in recent remnants,
Alive again in her awakened senses.


Adrian knows well the unsaid rules
Demanding that one be what one is not.
Restraining the fierce appetites within,
Interning the insurgents bent on sin,
As he matures, he learns to love his lot,
No longer heeding the laments of fools.

Monday, December 1, 2008


The first true sign of love is anger:
What we need, we're likely to resent.
Each needing, needed, leaned on, leaning,
No longer free standing stone and white.
The wistful, tender fear of finity
Yields a darker shimmer of sublimity.

Now indeed some sunny, delicate blight
Inaugurates a subterranean keening.
None can turn away and not be bent,
Each in each part self, part untouched stranger.


The greatest gifts are those that cost us least:
Price varies inversely with true worth.
Life itself's a free gift of the earth
Born of ecstatic joy in plant and beast.
What more exquisite present than a bower
Of wild roses in adolescent bloom?
Yet all that vivid color and perfume
Exist to serve the interests of the flower.
Love is such a gift. One trusts its treasure,
Free as the strange bright outbursts of a bird,
Equally uncanny and absurd,
Comes not from sweat or sacrifice, but pleasure.
I'm grateful for the gift you bought. But do
Remember that the greatest gift is you.


The greatest satisfaction comes
From wanting what is ours.
Desire is a gift, turning
Sentences to song.

There is a liberation in
The loveliness of flowers.
The miracles most commonplace
Are those for which we long.

How beautiful such longing is!
The vivid heart of life,
The hunger for what cannot be,
But is and must be true.

How wonderful I cannot stop,
Even as your wife,
From wanting, needing, yearning for
The love I have from you.


There is a point to living vertically,
To being with one person all one's life,
To diving 'neath the hapless, hopeless sea
Where one might meet the wonder of one's wife.
There is a mythic journey to be taken
That has much more to do with time than place,
That finds a fortune not to be forsaken,
Measured less in pleasure than in grace.
There is between us something more than passion,
A longing for belonging, and a sense
That here is love with neither writ nor ration,
Tendered with the joy of innocence.
The years pass quickly, though the time is long;
To spend them loving well cannot be wrong.


There is no life without its share of pain,
Nor can you love and not feel agony,
A need whose hunger drives you near insane,
A state in which you must, but cannot be.

There is no cure, nor anything to say,
Nor any aspirin for unhappiness.
Other friends and loves will come your way
And then pass on through death or faithlessness.

And so if you would ever dwell in joy,
You must embrace the agony of sorrow.
Time will all you love and need destroy,
But you will heal to love again tomorrow.


There is no treasure greater than your love,
However rich or bountiful your life.
It is the spring that wells up in your garden,
Replenishing the mother and the wife;
The joy that makes a pleasure of your burden,
Yielding happiness that time will prove.

Nor is love proof against travail and strife.
Instead, it is but tears with yearning laden,
Nile through the desert, green and brazen,
Edged with life, where all things near might bloom.


To be an angel, one need not have wings.
In giving love there is an equal grace.
Nor need one seek the aura in the face,
As love unveils the beauty of all things.