Note To Self I

Don’t live life like we come into this world.

Instead, remember, we come out of this world an expression of the whole.

Homage

For his art, he withdrew
His soul, a spent sun
Hung seven layers above
A midnight moon,
His feet a bed beneath the shadows
Preferring plant and stone
To lustiness. I lingered,
A tear to every storm and wind
Rounded firmly in his palm,
To the rhythm of the nightingale
He praised me in every colour imaginable,
Preserving his love, with mirth
And breath, he fashioned me a book,
A matrimony of bride and earth
To lines, poised, only to burst
With ecstatic bliss.
This rite, a sweet hymn
To tune the heart at dawn.

Only he who loves, with his whole heart, knows God…

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…

Red Wine

Teasing my brown skin
The setting sun
In ripples, your fingers
Sewing me into descent
As they paint me
Breaking every last blush
I own, rouged lips
Coloured with your wine
Sighing at the moon.

On Wealth

I caught myself on your ear
Listening to the sound of the wind
Your I and my I embraced
Afterwards, I took my seat on your eye
I have watched the sun rise
Countless times
But today, I saw it for the first time.