Time of sorrowing,
My words wander through
The vast emptiness of dark stars
And blood stained carnations.
Come my black hearted lover,
The great sorrow is our forest,
The blessed truth of a drifting
Reality beyond the villains of love.
A raven flies from tree to tree
And greets the infinity of your soul,
Which is just as nocturnal
As the black rose unseen
As though a queen was dying;
Oh beloved embrace your darkness.

Look, I see your eyes deep,
Free your fiery hair to the wind
So that it may shade the sun,
The wild magnificence of your
Womanhood which is like
Silken flattery of crimson kisses
From the moist of your lips.
I will catch Oscura,
The Dark Star and enchant
Him with your black eyes,
The sweet season of the nocturnes!

There is a cavern
That surges with a dark glow
And beautiful dark elves play
There in a spring of water
Naked and playful,
They caress the darkness
And you are their Queen.
You were there since before
You were born in the crystalline
Lament of the dark glow
From the days of antiquity
When the first words were yet
To be spoken and you flattered
Even the Poet Saints.

Oh Dark One,
The shadow of your breast
Under the howling moon
Where dragons sing a fiery
Hymn over sonorous waters
With wings of scales.
See the dark stars glow
Blood red to honor your beauty,
It is the harmony of the night
In a cluster of lightless constellations,
The fragrance of nightingales
And the souls dancing under
Your very eyes.

Do you see the night?
I am one with you lover,
The pale moonlight swells
Under my manly throat as I
Speak the forsaken language
Of the night, the soft kiss
Of the dusk vibrates within
Me as I ****** your body
To the music of the dead.
Close your eyes lover,
Blessed darkness awaits
As the universe pours itself
Into our bodies and bound
Us into the sacred night.....

Let the golden pollen
Of the finest flowers yet to be
Fill the snowflakes in purified
Glistened luminosity falling.

The natured call in the heartfelt
Spring of seasonal bodies,
The aura of sun warmed gilded
In waves of new birth memory.

Desirous vibration of longing
Fill the need in the cold fires,
A conquest of light
In the darkest triumphs.

In the crimson meadows
Of the sunlit mind,
A sparrow's song to the nest
Bleeding into the Winter depth.

In the depths of the cold
Passing before the season,
Spring comes in a fantastical
Whirlpool of new life in the middle
Of the storm.

Should I throw a rock at your head,
Or should some ornate stone in passion
Be flung that it may open your mind?
There is a poem,
Natural in its state of emotional honesty,
And a bird can be on a branch crapping
On your windshield,
Or upon morning's first light
A golden bird gleams among
The verdant branches like
Emeralds in a feast of crystalline
Fields set aglow by calling stars.
      Still the truth of the poem
And its severed beauty is that it
Does not lie among the constant
Heart, that frail and vicious
Emotionally challenged furnace,
And the words are compared
Like a rare comet vs. a constant star.
       Holes in the words
Sap a poets blood, so he films them
With passions of flame and struggle,
And from fire to fire he spills
Himself within the pen.
     From here to eternity's moment,
They will never slay his thirsting,
From verses that hold him,
To words that overtake even the spirit
Where his poems are forged like some
Ancient blacksmith
Beating together steel wings
To fly the world over for one mans
Fiery thought come to life ,
And he is a star and a begging dog,
A broken hearted moon,
A fragment of dead things
And alive in his words,
Before he dies he wants his
Soul to shed its poetry.

Why not the sorrow
Instead of hopeful constellations
From mythical legends,
Instead of the lost Gardens of Babylon,
Beauteous notions
Of the heart's grandiosity?
If everyday is a struggle,
If each day we try to fill
The void we are born with,
If pain is all too real;
We are born into the struggled,
To be friends to enemies
To make ourselves whole
While trying to find the existential
Moment of truth in ourselves,
As we gulp down joy
And sweat about under the sun.
The sorrowing cannot be claimed,
Though its air chokes you,
Though it eats your luster,
There is the other that one rarely
Finds, joy in the light.
Sorrow is too frequently a visitor.

If you were poetry
Then I don't exist,
And if I don't exist then
Neither did you and this
Is a lie.

We are only lovers,
The flesh of the lips
Tendered together for hopeful kisses
But not to be alive in
A melancholic grace of days.

And there is the other,
That which is the world
Of two lovers in the grinder's
Days together in this struggle.

And another which speaks silently
From the ears of a listener
And takes refuge in
Something else away from love.

And the other
Which is the word written,
So that you know you are not poetry,
Only the verse of words magnified
From a hopeful wound.

I don't belong here
In this flesh
Going to this dirt,
I belong to
the fire, the wind,
The sky.....

I read a Thousand love sonnets,
Oh what grandoise thoughts I had of
You Pablo,
Somehow sitting beside an open fire,
Highly romanticised visions
Running through you in
Crystalline clarity of the human heart.
       Oh what wonderous mythic thoughts
I had until I went grocery shopping.
I see you Pablo Neruda in your
Naked truth,
A sun setting fatigue over you,
You scrawling about a list of food,
At first which I thought was the Poem.
     But this could not be the Poem,
Words cannot fluster a man like you,
     I followed for a while ,first in awe,
Then in a sad curiousity.
  What happend to this man
And the allusions of such brilliant
Women in white dresses that must
Dance through his corridors?
      He walks a tired walk,
Slowly approaching another figure.
And there was the plain truth
Of a plain man with the adventurous heart.
    " Did you get the pork chops?"
She asks him in a worn down voice.
    "Yes dear"

And in this stroke of reality
Where dreams come to swift the soul
Away into the portico on some purple
Glazed sunlit dusk,
    Or the woman seeking the warmth
From the benighted snow next to
A porcelain fire which seemingly
Births tiny star like embers that light
The eyes of the lovers,
    I realise that it is the escape that is poetry,
The words are groanings of the deepest
Nature of the person,
    And the truth is not necessary,
For the poem sets us free from what
We all seem to already know.

Not too long ago
You made me promise you a new
Love poem every morning.
At night when the stars came by
And the moon shed its light
On your face,
I knew I could not write the poem.
With all that combined in the moment,
I knew you were the poetry.
So I tried to remember
Life empty without you.
All the forgotten faces from my
Earlier years,
And it seemed a dream non existent.
The kind you forget when you suddenly
Wake and the visions fall
Like dust from the shoulder.
For a long time I wrote so many love poems
Without you,
I see now the promise was in the words
I had written so long ago,
The poem is you,
And I dare not write what is already written.

Because I am not perfection,
Nor could I walk in its shadow,
I choose to see the Man.
I'm a born again sinner.
The curtains at a close and the
World a shot away from killing
Itself, I would not turn to perfection
In the dellusional mind that is man.
No,
I like my God as a man,
Beat up like me;
Wearing His scars in public humiliation.
I can relate to this Deity,
The imperfect manner of his sacrifice,
The degredation.
This Guy understands what its like
For most of us everyday,
So let Him bleed and suffer,
He did so in a short life.
He catches a glimpse of what its
Like for us everyday in the imperfect
World,
The glorious sinners we are,
And I walk with a suffered Jesus.

Where is the poet whose bugles blow
Through internet screens and invisible
Imperialistic royalty?
Might your words blow like trumpets
At Jericho?
March, march upon the walls
That which takes the heart at its very beat,
Take back with passion all that
Fear has robbed,
The power in the people that remains
The basic fundamental movement
Of this world,
Let be known we stand,
We stand and will fight,
March on poet saints,
Let a the martyrs before you become
The crystalline clarity that beckons
Deep in the soul.
Behold,
The words become a movement,
May they incur the people,
Then it becomes a battlecry!