Posts filed under ‘Ancient Poetry’

dawn

dawn

having woken from some dream
of holding you, still
tasting your mouth’s imprint, clasp
recorded by warmed skin’s cooling, i
sit and shiver, waiting for dawn.

____________________________________________________

Yes, actually, that’s real.  Some partings are occasioned by necessity, and any bitterness (apart from deities and the like) directed not at self, not at her–not at life–no, the bitterness was the experience itself.  “No blame.”

January 1, 2019 at 2:03 pm Leave a comment

anagrams

 various anagrams

     1.

a rusted plow
half-buried in sand;
hexagrams.

     2.

i saw you
paused in your flight
before your fall,
Daedalus.

     3.

i have not yet forgotten
her touch, subtle
as desire.

     4.

clasp slipped, hand cold:
the touch of truth.

     5.

flight encircled, ended,
at return–
silence.
That word
cannot be said.

December 24, 2018 at 4:23 pm Leave a comment

meanings(II)

meanings (II)

meanings. this land
is drenched with meanings.
but the dead
are merely dead.

December 20, 2018 at 4:20 pm Leave a comment

for missy

for missy

at the shore once
i watched your hair fly
in the surf’s windy spray

i had not touched you
all that day: was it
anger or a game? (honestly, i can’t
remember…)

we had been becalmed
by strange coilings of mist
that seemed to echo
inner, unspoken fancies

(a rat ran through the surf:
you didn’t shriek, but merely
looked, and wouldn’t let me
kill it)

…it was our last day, alone
in the fog’s-sphere of sight…

the next day you disappeared.
if you were ever there, that is:

perhaps, conceivably, you
were only a fantasy, born
of the wind, the fog, the spray.
.

December 7, 2018 at 5:44 pm 1 comment

mountains

mountains

have you seen those
hand’s-span mountains?–and
have you climbed them?

December 6, 2018 at 8:47 pm Leave a comment

for S. Delany

for S. Delany

tormented and wounded
in her words’ tearing lurch, he

be-sandalled and be-spectacled
had wandered the tired
the metalled street

and tasted the stale fog/perhaps-smog
of three o’clock of a weekday
three o’clock in a greyed City morning

considering various
heroes, villains, and other fools,
having

run from the worded woman
who skewers him at times
with her merest glance

but has birthed these various
worlds, these unlikely
(and moving) protagonists; when

i stiffen in my last breath,
surely,
i shall see Kid Death

November 14, 2018 at 3:32 pm Leave a comment

story

STORY

that quiet
desperation fills you, for
a moment
as you listen to his story (the old
drunk’s story)…
you realize
he is as you, save
for face, name, a few
vagaries…

but he is old, and you
are horny, and
a whore on the corner
beckons. If not
love, lust, and the quick’ning
of the blood
(you can understand the ones
who regard
sex as exercise, though knowing
them blind)
that bespells you…

so you leave him, you
stagger away.
It is odd that
all that of meaning
in that day’s passing
remains
is his story, and
(his incongruous, his beguiling)
his smile.

______________________________________________________________

The line between truth and fiction is quite narrow (if existent) at times.

November 14, 2018 at 3:30 pm Leave a comment

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