Tag Archives: Love

“This You Chose”

“This You Chose”

This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, external fire,
Internal final cut the cleanest; the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of pre-dawn, and glad
I was to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.




…a weak ghazal

Where can your tongue lead me? To the last day’s end? The evening?
I greet you with hope, you spend, not me but, yes! the evening.

They once knew we knew but in the mêlée. Only the evening.
So, then, we suspend the morning miles; now, then the evening.

And where did we go wrong? To the right? The left? The evening?
And when were we ever really free? In the day? The evening?

Your end or mine, what’s the difference? A simple evening.
A weakening, perhaps? Yes, and more! The final evening?

Concentric circles mark the path to finish the evening.
Round the bend, or to the point of no return, the evening.

Concomitant boxes house the letters in the evening.
Houses transcend the meaning of yet another evening.

And for Once the portion and the whole define the evening.
The end? A terse beginning, an hour within an evening.

“Don’t Get Me Wrong”

Maya Kokocinski Molero (5)

“Don’t Get Me Wrong”

Don’t get me wrong, nothin’ personal in this:
I turned to you; you said you had to think.
No resistance here, take your time, and while I sink
Into your memory, I’ll just mosey on, and kiss
The future for the two of us and by the time you land
In glory you can tell me how you missed me
And all we’ve seen together. Yes, of course, “We’ll wait, we’ll see!”
You won’t remember how we both have outlived our fans,
And verily vowed we’d meet again to celebrate
A victory together. Ah! But we both know where
Where this is leading, and perhaps, just possibly we’ve fared
Too well on separate roads to make it so. What we calibrate
Today cannot survive another round. No feeble memory outlasts
Efforts growing thin; we must simply believe it now, and let it pass.

…painting by Maya Kokocinski Molero…

“The Commonplace”

Daud Akhriev _ paintings

“The Commonplace”

The commonplace where once was someone’s
Hospices in distances and not so very far from me,
I knew her actually
As twilight and a thousand blazing suns
Reduced to changelings, now a masterpiece
Of onyx and sardonic, now a memory and somewhere’s
Afterthoughts; a hundred places where she feared
To go—or so Millay declared—a timed release, a lease
On what she thought was love. Without the sound
Of pen to page, nothing’s left to write, no doubt knowing
I’ll never see the end of it; no glowing
Tribute in a minor poem capturing all I’ve found;
A peace and distance in the grace that somehow
I was left but scents and lint and shadows.

…painting by Daud Akhriev…

“Pleased and Pleasing”


“Pleased and Pleasing”

Pleased and pleasing, crystalline,
Your eyes
Supine and surprising, patterned,
Your body
Pressed and pressing, joined,
Your hands
Allowed and always, affirming,
Your face
Signed and signing, searching,
Your spirit
Thought and thinking, inspiring,
Your glory
Sought and seeking, destined,

“And While We Love”


“And While We Love”

And while we love we see but one of us
May pass through a single space, one
Will ride the northern run
Toward the right and trust
The left will soon produce
A southbound pilgrim free
And safely bound, and while his
Soul’s in transit, quietly he reduces
His necessities, and so it goes with fellow travellers
Along the needle’s eye and so it is within this austere place. Passengers
Once removed within the present do not truck with languor,
Neither do they traffic with a mutual struggle; revellers
At feast and lovers in their thrall arrive too soon
To seek the waterline alone, and no one gets to shoot the moon.


…art by grenigog of DeviantArt…

“One Simile Short”

Rainbow road

“One Simile Short”

One simile short in me tonight; I’ve held a friend
To truth and some small correction, satisfaction wrapped in effort
A little overdue of course, but still, veracity affords
No flaw, no slight dilution if by hope it means to round the bend
And curve corners to pierce the prisms on a rainbowed road.
Might sustains itself in entrances and exits through the darker caves
And out again to realise potentials even in the tidal wave
And shoreline surge of sudden sodden pain. Certitude implodes
As does any element if in the effort to improve
A newborn molecule is born, its mutation hidden when at last
The morning’s fusion’s come. Regret, an instant past
A single faulty particle, is isolated and with the isotope removed
There comes a momentary loss of what comforts in the night
That proving false no longer are and cannot share the light.

“She Asked Me How I Knew” ,,,

…back again by popular demand…

“She Asked Me How I Knew”

She asked me how I knew, and all I knew,
And all of this in less than what it took
To give a sign, and say, “What floor?” It shook
Me up a bit, to tell the truth, but then I view
These close encounters in the light of years
These days, and find that nothing sways me so far off the path
That I’ve lost sight of who I am, and how to laugh.
And so I answered her, I did that thing. And then the tears.
The double-arched eyebrows, the look of terror in her eyes when I
Suggested that between our floors the elevator flies
Too quickly for a studied answer, but not to worry, I’d
Be willing, yes, perhaps, someday on some long train to try. .. .
She took a rain check, though, and said she had to go;
And, when she asked my name, I knew she really didn’t want to know.

“She Appeases”


“She Appeases”

She appeases, others simply please
Themselves with platitudes, refined. Reeds
Produce a tone, but, lacking song, excel
Themselves with piping. She treasures seeds
Produced but placed in barren soil
That come to nothing. Patience finds
Reflexive fields that take the sun, define
A resilience in clouds and makes them boil
To shed redeeming rain from discards
Of the winds, and melodrama in the shadows. She cares
For these her tender ones. Her signs she shares—
Her fruits, her flowers in the fragrances of winter’s snows: far
From smothering her gifts, she lifts them up and leaves them free
As imperfection and reticence , the sacred rites of sanctity.

…painting by Sharon Sprung…

“A Sometime Stain”


“A Sometime Stain”

A sometime stain; the birthmark of a single name–
Goaded, compromised, spited by the eyes–the microscopic page,
The age and bridge from what is meant to what it is. Age
The pontus maximus is potent but security and confidence are gained
In links throughout a sometime golden chain; the flame
Within the acorn, the seedling; twilights tremble at the larva’s rage
Beneath the unsuspecting fallow field where stalks the future stage
Above in comely spatial innocence and holy abstinence. The same
Reveals the relatives, within the cosmic heart; the absolute
That stations there strays not an aeon’s breadth from bliss—
illusion’s dispensation’s bourn—in what is seen, by whom
and where it lives, and from the gifted earthly womb
emerge the vectors in strengths of resolutes
while covenants among the dead above are born and die
within a single kiss.