Borges, your Escher-words
excite me! Walk with
me through your
gardens of waning gauchos
and dream-gemini.
The yesterday, today,
and tomorrow me
will follow your
labyrinthine guile
and touch the
universe.
Archive for March 17th, 2009
Your Escher Words
Posted in Free-verse on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
Undone
Posted in Rhymed on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
If I were but
Seventeenth-century fare
and sweet, I
would not mind your
worn conceit, for I
would love you. More
than she, dare I entreat?
This Moment
Posted in Free-verse on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
There is no mystery
when last-breath
enters a room.
It is the same as
when twilight
forms the purple
hues of morning,
or when notions
cusp at love barcaroles.
There is no mystery;
it simply is.
Nana
Posted in Free-verse on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
Shroud of tulle
nestles the nape
of her neck
and I,
fourth generation,
listen to her
straining breath,
each becoming
harder to bear,
until I am met
with sweet scent—
silent despair.
Amaranthine, My Beloved
Posted in Free-verse on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
You and I
are cloistered
in liminal spaces,
feverish phantasmagoria
bridging the dreamless world
and wakeful sleep—
innocuous doorjambs
engender passage
from one place
to another,
but instead we remain
in that place of
sedentary gloaming,
defiant,
feeding on the amaranths,
unfading as we wither.
Gloaming
Posted in Free-verse on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
What care have I
for sand-scriven words
on Lethean shores,
of men and women
eagerly lapping at
clear-clean water
with methodical intent
to excise thought.
Memories
of valor unsung
for those who would
lose themselves
in the name of
preservation,
resign themselves
to fade.
Puskin’s Last
Posted in Free-verse on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
untouched save for
tiny tracks across
the dust-covered floor.
Sills last looked
upon by the Russian demigod
gazing into the wint’ry
depths of the Motherland.
Time in suspension
ceased minutes, hours, seconds—
static positioning
on the far right wall
in death-proclamation.
Strewn manuscripts
carrying the souls
of his people,
all in lacrimosa
and mournful cries.
δάσκαλος
Posted in Free-verse on March 17, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
There are those
with whom I am entranced,
muse-born kith, those of whom I call upon
as Delphi, Tiresius,
lovely sirens (who call
unto me with achingly sweet chorus
and patiently wait as I
run aground shores
of inadequacy).
How I yearn to be counted among
their corporate intellect;
to be called upon by the progeny
of my progeny—
of their progeny and forth.
