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both afraid to speak
for what might be said
pointed down to my coffee
somewhere a Lark welcomes the sun
while a breeze comes
off the lake
under the raised kitchen window
that finally yielded
to her (grunting)
swollen wood from last nights rain
she had said as the window finally gave to her,
a hollow tone
to the words.
she leans across the table now
tucks a loose ringlet of hair behind her ear
as if she is about to whistle
blows upon her steaming tea
I still love her. I think.
but we are falling into valleys
of our own
it is a constant drop
- watching ourselves
slowly separated by a thing
we never knew existed
until we changed enough for it to show
our valley’s have formed
that now tower ‘round us
till I cannot even scream for her
and be heard
it seems my voice will not carry
across to her valley.
in the bleak breakfast light
the breeze steals the coffee smell
from the air,
and through our si
considerthat you are the rain
that falls before dawn
and clears the
dark morning air
that you are a thousand
bright milky stars
that punch through
the blanket of night
you are the sharp smell
of hot winter fire
finding the nose
of the old sleepy hunter
you are the wild frenzy
of the cold brown trout
that is caught
by the fishermans net
that you are the hard touch
of the grey sparrows beak
feeding her young
in the nest
you are the mad rumble
of the high waterfall
as it drops to the rocks
at its base
that you are the soft soil
lying deep in the orchard
bringing the sweet apples
that you are the wisdom
that begins in the silver
that the grandfather combs
that you are the dark shade
of silky brown liquid
that lives in the eye
of the deer
that you are the child
that sits at the circus
with the smile of a clown
and the heart of a lion
the early morning
and sourdough bread
at the old wooden table
by the bay
silent ghosts hover
above the water
until the sun
gently found a way
to haunt them
somewhere inside me
hide old visions
but long ago
they stopped coming out
to take shape
like a morning fog, is lost
to the rising sun
silent as the dawn
you turned out to be
not an image
something else, real
yet somehow formless.
I now wonder
if you remember our
early morning coffee
Do ghosts have memories?
Perhaps that is all
that memories are.
Let me carry you to California(1.)
It’s just on two years
just after 4:30am
and you’re calling
and you’re crying
and you say my dad died
and my very first thought
on the bleak and empty porch
in the grey/green light of the Bay
with the promised sun
still caught below the waterline
is that I will see you again.
I’ll come for you in Colorado
and carry you to California
I’ll wipe the salt from your burning eyes
to the childhood memories
of you so young
and vibrant wild
I’ll take the sorrowed sobs
from your tired, worn-out body
and place them into mine
we are bruised and we are broken.
But I promise
I can fix this
and in the early hours aftermath
of your midnight, melancholy dreams
I will look down upon you
and stroke your sun bleached cheeks
and somehow, before the rising sun
we can, the two of us pretend
I gave us both a better chance.
Sarah. Let me carry you to California.
FallingShe quit music in the middle of a middle C
at The Warfield
and left the cello to drop to the stage floor
with a crack and a confused murmur from the crowd
Later that night, in front of the mirror
she counted the moles on her body
and noticed ones on her left breast
that were new
and she pulled her hair into bunches of various styles
and stretched her skin around her eyes to smooth it
and hated everything she saw
she lost weight and took up smoking to lose more
and in skittish nights of insomnia, she took to pinching herself
to match the pain in her body to the things that were angry inside her
and then matched it further and stronger still, with clean blade nicks
behind her bony knee
She walked Golden Gate park
and tried to find beauty in the eucalyptus
where the sight of the late summer runners with white earphones
and teeth from toothpaste commercials
made her feel false and tight and turgid
She pulled photos albums from her cupboard
and wrote angry verbs against the
The reason I won't be comingbecause I waited outside of
when it rained atop
a sea of black umbrellas
for hour after hour
and I watched with dripping skin
as the deluge hit the gutters
and drowned the littered pavements
on that day
and all that drizzly air
had the smell
of wishless pennies
and I thought about you always
I thought about you only
in that frozen autumn grey
and as the Piccadilly clock
ticked its forever time away
I fell from love and lightness
never wanting you to stay
but still I waited for you
yet another hopeless hour
as the end-of-wednesday workers
gathered 'round the sterile banks
waiting for their midweek pittance pay
I watched as they lined at
all the busy counters
of cheap Korean florists,
taking all those rainbow bouquets
home as gifts for Valentines day
and still I waited for you
outside Piccadilly Station, in the rain.
and you never came.
DadI turned out like my spot-skinned father
and I would twist and turn the dry tall-grass threads
that I found on the prairie into braids of hair
like he taught me,
and I would feed the horses blocks of salt
before they took flight in the bleak twilight of the plains.
I lived in a world of dry winds and cul-de-sacs
and reached the thinking end of things
before I knew I had no-where to go,
and I first fell in love with a girl
who’s handle is lost to that wind
but her brown eyes are sketched to my soul for eternity.
When I left home he stood on the old porch
while the wind chimes sprung chords
across the flat land like a funeral bell
as my mother walked me to the car,
and as I drove across the cattle grid for that final time
he was already inside the house and gone to me
as a shape and as an image.
He died of a stroke 6 months later
and she told me in her soft sweet voice
how much he had loved me and his pride of me
but it was always in her voice
and I had to use my imagination
The Winter Hunti. Ice
In the first evening glow
the hard crush of our tired boots
against the roads black-ice
gives off tiny echoes, reverbing as
we move with reverence
in slow steps
the distant hunting cabin,
the chimney smoke
its low white wisps
call us home.
Dragging the limp
towards the smokehouse
the dogs are scouting ahead
their pink tongues panting misty breaths
into the fading light
and above us
a spray of Winters
first milky stars light us,
the smell of venison
hits our throats,
wets our mouths.
A deep-still night of cool air
we sit staring and smoking
by the cabins glowing hearth
dark hot tea is blown cool
and sugared with old metal spoons
as the scent of cooked meat
cling to our worn shirts,
all dry and beat, half-bearded and
ready for sleep,
the moon arrives
late and full
throwing a dull grey light
through the cabins icy windows.
Residualtoday’s reason to keep living:
i thought of this six word story:
here’s a pen, let’s end this.
i survive, a blossom that heaves through winter
like a lonely citystate, an intemperate Sodom
waiting for God’s discrimination. i see it
foaling its own diminishment
when it had no right to colour
me. and i’m reminded of how i
start each morning with an ambered prayer
and end the darkness with a glass bullet
that i have taught how to dance.
still i spin an echo, a copy of
desolation, the weight of a single judgment. i see
the sun spill out of the dull morning. muted and mocked,
caged in iron weights that tug my rusted temples.
i am reminded of how the crosses fell
to the valley floor in blood-speckled shards, amassing
an illness of splintered peaks. my mind, an angry
jury, the whispers start early, night falls fast. still now
my only wish, to find what eloquence
is left to me, as all my times, my paper
admonishments left screaming in streets,
One tear... dearly spent. (Act-I)
I see their faces, they, the unloved ones, dry eyes, no smiles, just a stark and desperate gaze, bereaved of care, hope, love.
Each little face gazing bleakly on through the fractured glass of a picture frame, but not at me...
I lay it down, gently. For I'll find no comfort in it, only remnant shards of a forgotten memory, one soon to pass with me long into the halls of eternity.
This the equal sum of all my years. One just memory, fare earned, bought at a fair price, one of ill deeds and a blackened soul.
I feel pain, for myself, for this world, for the last time. Also fear, so real to me now, that he, this dark loathsome one, would leave me behind.
Unwanted as unworthy, to remain here, a fool in purgatory.
The cold now grips me as if embraced by it, just as a mother would an inconsolable child.
I look into the deepest dark, and ask him. "What is Hell like?" He took no notice, and ask me for the time.
But his question went unanswered, for the
PetrichorI walk without an errand for the mind.
I must be homeless.
Neighboring enclaves separate our spaces,
belie their builders’ mirthless exhaustion.
Not even necessity can be blamed
for these mud-struck, brittle gourds,
these quick nests of vasculous organs
pulsing with their peculiar tyrannies,
briefly scuttling from their hovels
like sun refugees
darting into gleaming storefronts
waffled in concrete misery
all to forestall the end of their souls.
Where can we go when we only want to breathe?
Sitting in a park bench,
trillion-visioned, crowned with galaxies,
I can rest my weary invention.
I sense the weight of an unseen player,
a secret stratagem
as she moves her piece into the glade.
I’m set in place, yet unopposed.
Uncombined with lovers, children,
the slow parade of trees and heat,
I lay beside these stalwarts,
at once, still and hurtling
throughout the travesty of time.
I assemble a cumulus intelligence
near the playground,
threatening Summer with three days
EnchantedA golden apple tang
Heralds summer's brightest fire
But I prefer to amble in
In the darkest corners
There are no haunted whispers
And only caramel shadows
Transfer daylight's memories
For unto me the stars
Snapping leaves leading moonlight
Are not my coldest lonely hour
But a renewal of soul
Desperate for YouDay by day
Block by block
Tree by tree
Tear by tear
Day by day
Trials and temptation at my door
As the grass grows in the world
My soul being put to the test
Day by day
Every hour and every second
Realizes that I am desperate for the Lord
For the Lord to hold me from falling
Lord, I'm desperate for You
My heart tears and wears from a lack of Your wisdom
I thirst and hunger for You
Lord, You hear my cries and You know that I am desperate for more of You
Lord, You are the only who fills my lungs with air
Lord, You are the only that speaks words into my mouth
Lord, You are the only one that makes my heart beat louder than drums
I'm desperate for more of You; Lord, I'm desperate for You
Teach me Lord to worship You with all that I am on my knees
To depend on You and have Your way in every part of my life
Lord, I am desperate for more of Your love
Lord, I am desperate for more of You in my life
You are the only one that will last forever
You are the only one that will love forever
You are t
RefugePlaces to go and places to see
Places to see and places to leave
Places that only last for a moment
Places that lasts for eternity
Places are hard to find now
Everything is stamped and yet hard to find
Hard to get in and hard to adapt
Try your best to fit in; join the crowd
Nothing but places for the world to blossom
Bars, clubs, and even cafes; need I go on?
Places to pay just to stay a moment
Places that calls themselves refuges
Places to just get away from all the chaos
All the chaos and imbalance of this world
Broken homes, broken dreams, broken hopes
A place just to get away from it all, all for your soul
Places that make you try hard to fit in
Places that have people armed to the teeth
Outsiders were never really welcomed here
Biting, clawing, and tearing down piece by piece
Need I go on? These places are not refuges
These places are chaotic as a broken home
Need I go on? I have all day
I know of a place; a place of true refuge
Down the road and past some trees
Every Thursday nig
hauras (fragments)English version below
kastepisara kielon luomessa
peitteesi lehden suojassa
heräsit unestamme aamuun
in a dream,
a dewdrop on a petal
in the shadow of your leaves
you awoke from our dream
a new morning
your tears and i to mist;
yesterday to oblivion.
Soul of fire;
Yet always the same.
Shall I write to thee
On this hot summer day,
While I wait for the paint to dry?
Who so many fear and loathe
To the very last day that they live.
Who so effortlessly stole my heart
Before I knew I had one to give.
Parent of monsters;
A term so subjective,
As you and I know
So very well.
Shall you smile again
In the face of adversity,
And every wound and weakness belie?
As you do,
By telling naught but truth.
As you must,
To frail sensitivities soothe.
You are not,
Though you'll pretend to it
You can be,
Upon no terms but your own,
Free and untameable spirit;
You belong to none
Yet, for better or worse,
To any and everyone else.
Damaris: Foreign GodWhat is this message that you bring,
what is this "good news" that you preach?
Who is this strange God from afar -
and what should it matter to me?
We are Greeks - we have our gods,
more gods than you.
What's a foreign god to me?
Your story's nice -
but what's it to me?
But you say
was always there,
even when I did not see Him.
has always cared
for all the world
even though we did not know it -
for this God
is the creator
and all mankind is his -
is the sustainer,
who provides for all that is.
This is no foreign God
but the one true God of all -
and that's why it matters to me.
is the one who made me.
is the one who knew me
before I even knew myself.
cares not only for one people -
for all the peoples on earth are His.
In Him we live,
in Him we move,
in Him we have our being -
is the true God
Cosmic MuseWarm air snowed with floating pollen,
Colpate and sulcate,
First scents of pine and wild grass.
The flotsam and jetsam of spring.
In a tattered notebook she sketches,
Perfect Kookaburra on redgum,
Upon cedar easel, with flaking legs
Nesting Lyrebirds in dark wood.
At twilight she shows me, through chaos,
Andromeda and Indus and later,
Cupping my ears with soft hands,
She guides me to Lyra and marks me Aquarius.
Naked by Firelight she moves,
Soft mounds and aching curves.
A fleshy flicker through flame.
Calling me into her, my cosmic muse.
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