Delicious is a word I save for you.
Chocolate comes close but feeds me only
Famine.  Your skin is blest three times,
Once for new redolence.  Bay leaved
To the core, you proffer memories
Which chamber the years in round rooms,
Opening freely into rouge galleries
Of spice.  Secondly, it is soft as summer
Water.  It draws itself toward touch
Like ripples skipping over a sweating pond,
Lapping its way towards the creamy shore.
The third gift of your skin is the colour
Of desired destination, an instrument
Which maps the mirror of a universe,
Because you are deckled with stars so heady,
You are wet smoke from drooling galaxies
And rose white fathoms of sky, they are pooling,
And pulling me with force so fulsome
As to be almost—
Tasteless.

                 The firm green bread of spring,
The blue blood of heaven and the milky
Sun, these are your flavours all intermingled,
And three piquant senses speak to my tongue;
I smell, I touch, I taste— you are,
Delicious.

Frogs— suddenly dive,
Blocks of flesh crane to the sky,
Heron holds head high.

I sit on my porch, the sky is dropping
As I pour my tea.  The day was lit
With paint and brush, now my face
Is lighted by the round full joy
Of the shining moon, I see
Him in my filling cup.

.
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.

Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.

O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.

Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.

Man of science,
Only sees what is there,
Wants to build the fence.

Man of religion,
Out of nothing sees everything,
Wants to envision the fence.

Man of philosophy,
Out of everything sees nothing,
Wants to sit on the fence.

…
Some birds are blue
Carry the sky
Earthwards

Ground birds nest
In bushes
Bursting like sun

Water birds
Swim to what is there
Always reaching

An eagle is like wind
Never chasing
Simply lofted

Crows are busy
So like tribulations
Spots of wind

A swan knows
Water will carry
As water in cloud

Some birds are dressed
Forthright on earth
The wren, the robin or quail

Each bird is dream
Miracles for us to see
Feathers fall from heaven

If I were to become again
Your dove, in all its tenderness,
Your star in the holding sky,
Would we never know once more
The miracle of flight, of white
lsled lands, undiscovered, burgeoning,
And green, the rainbow sparkled peaks,
The oceanic, new sights of the eye?

When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch.  Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.

You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library.  Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.

                                           Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.

Blooms of hair, shimmers and starlight,
Face of dream, gathers in lighted loom,
Wakes of morn, spotty forest fawn, child
To magi moon, maid of golden orchards,
Of faraway seas, world opened vastness,
Temptress of foreign fruits and the giving
Sun, where blue, blood oranges old, ripen,
The dark vines grape of ancient olive, red
Lamb and wine.

What enchanted lands are you made of?
Where the diving seas of dolphin, sponge
And whirlpool weave, wherein Gods must
Have loved and making you, left this earth
In beauty and peace, burnished with dream.

She prolongs agony,
Razor lips cut so sweetly—
Can we be just friends?

.
Hovers over petals
Itching to dive, drop
Divine into essences
Of live colour, scents
Of creation, breathing
In the motion swirls,
Stemmed skywards,
Genitalia of rainbows
End.  

Honey Bee catches
Nectar dripping out airs
And steels away to hive,
Beelines to comb, where
Amber ****** becomes
What Gods sleepily crave,
Sniffed sweets of ambrosia,
Borne in the queer fluctuations
Of tiny wings, firing up vibrations.
.

When I was a youth, I spied a bird,
She filled my field with song,
And sadly it was, my duties began
But we made a vow singin,'
Together again!

    And a way'l we go, as I hurry the sea and—
    She waits the land.

My true love I call a nightingale,
And I myself a lark,
Together we make, two turtledoves,
And we made a vow singin,'
Together again!

    And a way'l we go, as I hurry the sea and—
    She waits the land.

    O come will the day, that my true will say,
    When all my sporting is over,
    'Do you remember the days, I waited the land,
    And you hurried the sea?'

Now, the sea is my girl and I her man,
I hear a lovers lament,
An old seabird cries from the brighty main,
And I join with him singin,'
Together again!

    *O come will the day, that my true will say,
    'My heart, you've been the world over!'
    But until I rest free, I must hurry the sea and
    She waits the land.

Her angelic face,
Was deft softness, tranquility,
My bed of feathers.

Asleep with my love,
I wake, she is in dream— still,
Conversation runs.

Winter fantasia—
Wolves and loon moaning full moon,  
Snow white swans landing.

Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.

Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.

O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.

Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.

Morn shine rise painting,
Wild poppies untended,
Dew drops of the sun.

Morning of new year  .  .  .
All senses waking up wild,
  .  .  .  First flowers of spring.

Gaggle reign of quail—
Sharply dressed, proud, lead by scouts,
Marching down alley.

I never saw eyes,
Like hers, now we walk together,
Lake water sparkles.

Eyes of tigress look—
Her gentle ways gone at night,
Sacred and profane.

Shiftless, sifting the air,
Plunging gyrations,
Crow speak
Hackle, hacking;
Speckles the sky.

Saw the air whittle to smoke,
Black mar in the weir of wings
And mankind muddled in the wraith,
Slowly streams a bread trail
Forth and back;
Black bleeding.

I see your claw tracks,
Dark-digging-sparkle
Plain in the muck,
Needles threading,
A trail of stars.

In my darkest hour, by the rage of sun,
I met her in a shower of April days,
Riding to the moon in twined études,
The dry chrysalis of winter shells
Gave way to lightness, glaze,
The rain in our eyes, amaze,
Her voice as it fluted, broke,
Like feathers from a wandering bird,
Were my wings of iridescence and joy
And we were blind when we were born,
We were blind as bells of floating grace,
Lived forever by such a new shore,
Such ends of buzzing time,
As May flies.

In the dark room
Sparks fire—
Whispers of the sun
And silence blankets the sky,
I was born amongst the ruins
Of gentleness and wounded love,
By the dug kurgans of the Amazon,
The brands of rains ever burning
And foils of hope, fated, turning,
An outer beast eyes and howls,
The merciless stars ever sweep
And cowl in coldest sparkle flame,
Merest minded words, fainted, stab,
Drop in the down volumes of space
Evaporating under the brooding
Mortal emptiness.

Late frost, dreary skies,
Feisty sun punching faint holes—
Poppies bloom in shade.

Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Airs naught wholly bright as thee.

Is there a kneel for end of days—
Songs, deeds for those who prey?
Is there light breaking pied wings,
Or is heaven overlord to all things?

Sun spots feathering coated crest,
Talons top spires mountain breast,
When rivers of the wind fail all fowl,
What grace and splendour in a cowl?

Is there a psalm in the wailing winds,
A hymn that carries all innocent sins,
Or a fable, blue as stupendous skies,
A truest place where redemption lies?

The sea slides with lost ocean birds
And blue wings coast, row unheard,
Edging the skies with razors' tinge,
Seeding the immortal spark begins.

Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Naught airs wholly bright as thee.

Your face,
Tender, round and dimpled,
Framed with gilded, carved, tawny curled
Whirlpools of hair, long, lighted, and sparkling,
Your face is the face—
Of Ireland.

Your lips,
Full, moist and deathly deep,
Are wells, not well for me, not safe, taboo,
Tantric, tall told tales of brave Odysseus
Under Circe's alchemies
Of forgetfulness.

Your *****,
The zenith of blossom in fabled
Elysium, gateway to the forbidden gardens
Of sage and sinners, warrior-poets, Aphrodite's
Envy, Poseidon's drowning
And smoldering Zeus.

Weighty lightness, solid levity,
Primordial soup,
Some ancient rite, draws me
To the foam.
Its celestial colour,
Its effervescent overflowing,
How it teases my buds,

Not like water,
Like honey
As an insect encased
In amber
I am within,
The tears of sunshine
And Olympian folly.

On dry days
I seek the incendiary agent,
Brooding bout,
Pint-sized, el niño
And his brews
Come soaring
After the downpour,
As high-tiding winds,
That **** contented days
And spin spirals round
Cups of complacent
Hours, the whine
Eternal,

Only seems
Like spilling
Blood.
Draw me, the dram.
The dram of what?
Ale's the thing!

Falling,
Overboard,
No drowning man was so ever
Esteemed,
Ever so buoyant.

How the vessel becomes
His captain.

.
There are ones
Who see colour
As only light made
Into shades by
A shifty vision,
The brain playing
With in-splayed
Vibrations, unordered
By such symmetries
That blinds mere minds
And yet, sets soul afire,

There are dreamers
So awake that stars
Are moony in sky,
There are lovers, lit,
Fallen so deep above
Heavens that the Gods
In envious joys arise
Like the first dawning
Sun, in prideful airs,
Among watery stones,
Blistering into birth.

Ring-necked doves resting
Coo, build below higher nest—
Red hawks in the eggs.

Dull birds out on limbs,
A woodland hawk is flying,
Between the branches.

The moon, beams over the planted fields,
Growing blades shimmer, slicing the night
As fiery comets first seeded the earth,
Beads light, to life-giving grains of rice.

The moon held me down,
Then your shining face swept me,
Now, I rise with sun.

If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.

Rain wells in soft eyes,
Droplets drib by the windows,
My lips on her cheek.

In dusk a cloud moves,
Barely are there any stars
And the sheet drops, sinks,
As lovers we came to this
Gentle pond without guile
Under the willows green,
Set on the banks of whin,
In sight of a stone bridge
And settled in to watch
The swans arrive and go,
Like windy arcs of bounty
Under great falling blanket
Of indigo and gold sparkling,
Enameling eyes of the heavens.

Now, I come to visit alone,
Only memories gliding slow,
Love has fled near after song
The sweetest spring awakening,
How time unveils dark truths,
My hair, it falls in the wind
With the groping willows,
The godly eyes of the skies
Are now mere stars that flash,
My love is betrothed to another,
Still, the cool white swans at dusk
Ride in waters turned shallow, murky
And black as their eyes in day fall,
And yet they remain wondrous,
White rose of my soul,
Drifting away.

.
*Snow presses with a sorrowful squinch,

And white falls as the sudden snow falls,

We make our rounds in the growing dark,

Walking long the frosty eves with my love.

Love, looked at itself,
Came upon nubile innocents,
Threw down with jaded sun,
Made its own bed in the open,
Earth rained for a thousand days,
Evolution birthing in the flood,
Meteors could not wait to fall,
Comets not wait to strike,
Oceans drowned in salt,
Evaporated whilst the whole wide
Swirl, turned and glazed upon
An arc of celestial remnants.