When the Colossus knows your name
there is infinity in the voice
asking, “Was that the choice?”
Shall I reply “In what frame
is there left
where fortune is bereft?”
That cosmic promises are deft
when reality encounters mortality
and ends immortality.
Tomorrow will be the only infinity
to complete the story;
To write the poem of life’s glory.
Don’t look to find meiosis
in the eternity
there is nothing that is lost.
What you may understand
is, at the moment,
Understatement.
There were never
any senses; no matter
how common.
Find the pieces broken
From thy face -
For the fragments, compositions
Form levity-
Fanciful or frightful they are ridiculous
Fables within the human framework.
The travails of being elemental,
When the church of allotment calls,
Are both reductive and extravagant
Arguments for the circumspect
Balance between hydrogen molecules
And the universe of all reason
That states - value is abundance of utility.
Let the waters of life flow
To their source –
A toast to the goldfish In the bowl.
Why do you live so carelessly
In endless holler and scream;
Flowing from the behemoth granites,
Across the snow-covered plains,
and to my front door.
Why can you not feel the silence
Beneath our baren canopies
and understand the deep sleep
of regeneration.
Your roars may humble the beasts
But these woods –
These ancient woods will come alive
Long after you have passed.
The figure sits alone by the window
Upstairs in the house by the bay.
Day after day with nothing to say
To the closing horizon with a drowning sun;
The empty frigates and the tall ships -
They each follow along with silent lips.
As the daily procession of each morning
Pleads with the sky to reason with sign:
“Why! Oh, why has the sea
made a widow out of me!”
If she could only take back time
And return her wanderer’s rhyme.
With the first two notes, the heart fluttered
At the thought of that Summer of ’42 -
When death sought comfort in my arms.
And your heart lay on the floor -broken
Like so many glimmering seashells along the shore.
Telling stories of a lifetime that never lived
That now walks in, with a tattered book of poems.
A phantom of lost love
That resides in a book of verse
In cold reticence;
And I, in warmth, holding a book of poems.
