Letter – 14 February 2012

 

Beloved,

Life is oppressively quiet without you. How I long to fold your arms over me, like wings hugging the sky, as we, but a single leaf, gently sway to the breezes most subtle of tunes…

Just that…

A

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Letter – 15 October 2011 II

 

Beloved,

I have tried so many times to respond… but however does one begin to write a poem for a poet?
When I search for comfort I find my breath, concealing you in song. There, our voices sing to the moon and the blossoming dawn, as they lay bare the fragrance of the earth. Aching, for your feet to step to my path, to penetrate the expertise that comes from loving over and over and over again, I wait, hoping you will remember the shared field, our lips amongst the harvest, bodies tied to earth searching for their truth…

A

Letter – 15 October 2011

Beloved,

I’m in tatters. My breath boughs, resigns and reaches for you, only to find the slopes of eternity silenced… slayed in this afternoon light.
It is obvious, without you my grief presents the cliff with an edge, where naught stands before me… I search for comfort and find only the needles of the pine, in hand, where the names of the dead bathe in the moonlight.
With each breath, I try to unlearn you, yet, how does one unlearn the concealed song flowing through their veins?

 

A

The Poets Hand

 

I waited the other side of dawn
A naked flower for company
Knowing not the scent of your woods
Or the wounded wail of your fields.

I waited the other side of night
Hoarding the glow of dusk,
Drowsy in its golden sheen
Limbs, innocent as lilies.

This nuptial, my native fervor
Hung on Venus, awaiting
The sleepy flames of passion ripe,
Enamored in the poets hand.

You hold the Queen
Lit with a festive star, northward
Follow the rim of my wine glass,
Witness the frigid petals, rouged with faith
At last drawing apart.

(c) A Hannan