Saturday, December 11


I watched every expression of your face
as the blue hues turned and twisted in
the twilight of dreams, the tomorrow
of my memories. I placed your eyes
in front of mine and held them there;
a token taken from longing afterwards
of the sky’s limit on the even after I
hold you place that sits offen in my mind.
The pinewoods hang their boughs for you,
the sometimes light they do let through;
it falls, not on, but near a cheek of soft
and flow and always in my hand is all
the mourning dew of lost
is how I find myself if life is without you.

Sunday, December 5

There was a tree

A small tree hung in the clear sky
on the hill from my off the path view. The
twilight hours were waiting for me.
The morning sun holds most of my memories
and its light reminds me: only
the bright ones worth keeping, only
the hard laboured sun slides are those
you take with you. But you can't take anything,
on another hill, in another time, and
between two gypsy spins, I heard once said.
So it all stays here, I say: In your heart
or hung outstretched, it's all there
between a small tree clear and the huge hill
of the morning's night sky.

Friday, December 3

To The North

Think of rain in November,
the all wet around,
and drizzle all over.
Breathe the snow, its fuzz
while outside you're dancing. Feed
the hunger with passion's fruit
and wet your lips
dangle across skin.
Stretch your tongue
taste all this vivid,
its curls and burrows,
the cold ice of Remember.