Drawing a line

It takes a pencil to draw a line
which separates us so simply
that the gods in their mercy
drew them ever so far away.

Poets in their flights
of eternal sadnesses and beauty
from this line alone have spun
these words of eloquence and fury:
Till mountains disown their valleys
And the heavens and earths are one,
These monstrous lands between us
Shall echo hate, and love in time.

Painters with every color
guide their strokes subtly
to some imagined end or meeting-
Music in its guise
draws our soul from these lines
of bold, but now receding-
gentle waves upon our shores

Leaving me with a pencil
to draw a line between us,
where we shall meet,
where we shall not pass-
a line for us to see
where the sunset becomes of me
to you, a sunrise waiting
on the other side

Of this line I struggle to erase,
my hands smudged in grey
to reach nothing but a shore
where my watery fingers struggle
to reach as far as once before
in a day

Or in a night, or perhaps, kindly,
in an evening of delight, or blindly
walking together and stopping together
and waiting together along those streets
and intersections and routes,
among those lines we heard together,
I can only remember you saying-
"Thanks for waiting with me."

=Do not look at me like that=

Do not look at me like that.
My eyes will drop and trace
moonlight shadows on your face.

Avert your starry gaze
so I may blink and dare
rise to reach across, erase
moonlight shadows from your face

Do not speak to me like that.
My breath will freeze and make
silent splinters everywhere.

Lift to your lips and pray,
spin and twirl and cast away
your clear umbrella to share
falling splinters everywhere.


Do not look at me like that.
My heart will melt and leave
the most slip and buttery mess!

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.


Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.


Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.


Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.


You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.


Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.


With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.


Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

=Dawn= sonnet

Dawn, they tell me, is most pretty but shy
In the awakening light, can you see?
Almost perfect, her eyes sparkle the sky
Night after night in dreams. Oh, can you see?
Evening, she falls, most elegant her fate,
Lovely as a gem; gift from you to me.
In a different world, perhaps I await
Morning; the sweetest kiss from you to me.

Summer, does he seem most happy and warm
Hiding his darkness in shadow and shade
Unlike Autumn who casts his tears like leaves.
Winter, fear when his frost and silence form
Every moment despair. Oh, will it fade?
Never. Yet awaken Spring with a kiss.

Dawn redux

Dawn, they tell me you are
a poet. Alright, so I see.
When I first saw thee,
naturally my mind twisted
lazily into disbelief,
intuitively into recognition.
More importantly,
I gave you soup
but forgot to ask
your name. Dawn,
after much had passed,
is still a prettiest thing.
Yet it rained right after
and I was indoors while
you hid from me
in my shy little room
doing quantum physics.
Then morning was gilded
already. Then the night,
a dinner you were there,
dressed in green, or was it white.
My memory confuses me tonight,
that night, I noticed your boots
and maybe your skirt, or was it
jeans. No, that was another.
Tell me it was a skirt.
Tell me they do not make
chocolate-shaped merlions.
What am I saying?
Why was I so amused?
Only because you were Dawn.
All the glances I sneaked
when I was not glancing otherwise,
all was in vain, since
I forgot to ask
for your loft that night.
No matter.
For I was pleased enough to feel
Dawn with her rosy fingers creep
on my uinsical sensibilities.
Noli me-

=Dandelions=

Memories of whiteness lay
over the drowsy fields of May,
but the dandelions bloom and share
rare sunbeams as we wake.

The wandering strays remember
fields of violet, green and amber.
But now they warily trample
across cracks of gold on grey.

Do they miss the color of daisies?
Those silly white pale happy faces
nod gently while the wind
whispers promises of heaven.

As the fields begin to stir
with promises of red and purple,
the dandelions pale and tremble,
like silly daisies unintended.

Let the wind steal them away,
perhaps to wander, perhaps to stray.
Let them stay aloft but pray they'll land
where rare sunbeams find their way.

Daemons

Daemons are little metaphors of ourselves;
a golden cervet shrieks and clings
to your fingers an island finch tugs
at the invisible thread that binds
the nonchalant cat who too silently
arches his back into a turtle shell
you conveniently slip in your pocket.

Do you not love the daemon of a child?
Porcupine ball of change; undeciding
quills filled with blood and inked
irredeemably to a fate, once sealed,
no longer remembers its little metaphors.

Now they be theme and tone and style,
essayant to the world. In your shadow
tread your daemon love, in what form
your light shall spare.

When you feel that shuddering warmth
of relief, your daemon hugs your back.
When tears quiver down your cheeks
in vain, your daemon caresses your face.
When you sleep in peace, or are weary
and lost, your daemon holds your dreams.

They become cataracts and tint;
visions and dreams, were they ever
so literally demons and screams?
Or perhaps, the voice of lucidity
at times which no longer matter.

Daemons are memories of our different selves,
always chasing what you might have been
and creating little metaphors for me.

Courting a poet

Now courting a poet requires some
Irrational, irrational numbers.
Mersenne primes or sonnet rhymes
Mostly just won't do.
Irreverent reversals, please do not try.
Limpid lines but concatenate fools.
No, courting thee requires much
Waiting, more waiting for word to come.
Always like the hunting of a snark,
Daring and willful names abound.

=Coraline=

Coraline, do not sit by the window
alone with the aurora and dreaming.
Run along outside and play with the snow
or come sit by the fireplace warming.
Listen to me now, my darling princess,
in those fickle folds of light you shall find
neither warmth nor delight, but the endless,
expiring wisps of an escapist mind.

Why those parallel beams begin to veer,
elegantly chasing the horizon;
elegy for the fallen,
and rising
lovingly to bridge, selfishly to veil,
each moment I breathe,
a new creation
ignites, and old reason is left burning.

=Constellations=

When I was young and blurry,
I'd look up at the sky.
At night, they told me, I would see
constellations if I tried.
So I tried and all I saw were but
pinpricks of light, or stars
as some might call them, grouped together
by imaginary lines, and arbitrarily
named with classical names,
or mythological themes.
They were just stars alright.

Then one night, in a dream or not,
I remember it clear as glass.
Staring out into the night,
my vision blurred and chased
horses, faces, velvet lies
danced across my eyes.
The constellations had come alive!

Standing at that corridor,
leaning out amazed,
how long I lingered asleep or dazed,
dazzled by that gift;
Constellations, I have glimpsed,
are children of our stars.

=Citadel=

O'er Arcor hangs the Citadel,
Wraith of ancient or alien past.
Of its purpose, diverse theories abound,
But of its name, there's none but Citadel.

Six towers, symmetrical, inverted, jut,
Threatening to impale the very heart
Of Arcor, where still Lake Ederlee rests,
Reflecting, restoring the Citadel.

Six towers, adamantly bare, defy
The perditious decay of time and stretch
Down towards the water as if to grasp
The reflected Dome of the Citadel.

The crystalline Dome of the Citadel
Momentarily blinds all those whose gaze
Lingers lost, for within its fractalled haze
You'll find, infinite refractions of mind.

What lies beneath the Dome of the Citadel?
Some say a stairway to heaven, or hell,
If you'd dare descend those escherian stairs
Of some fey poet's imagination.

But I have sailed beneath the Citadel
And two memories haunt my mind;
The terror of falling from the Ederlee
And the whispering call of the Citadel.

=Cherry Blossoms 2=

How long have I waited
by these cherry blossom trees?
Oh, are they so disturbed
by this stranger resting- dreams;

Prophetic and pain, stray paths shall pass
like the coldly deluded passions
Ever-flailing in the winds at last,
alas, creep stealthily into my heart.

Ah, how cold they must be,
these solitary strangers shaded
So barely by my branches, as if
I'd give beauty where they needed

Warmth; will you not share with me
instead of waiting like a ghost
In a shell, rather depressedly
until Spring falls in love with me.

=Cherry Blossoms=

=Cherry Blossoms=

The wind was pink and pastel swept
by the cherry blossoms' flight
against the blue and blushing white
to an irreversible plight.

Who knows what they seek from the skies;
a heaven in the wind or perhaps another life
before they fall
so inevitably as you will
come to love them.

As the last of the cherry blossoms sweep
away from this world forgotten,
will you come to realize
they were slowly
whispering
farewell.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wind was pink and pastel swept
by the cherry blossoms' flight
against the blue and blushing white
to an irreversible plight.

Who knows what they seek from the skies;
a heaven in the wind or perhaps another life
before they fall
so inevitably as you will
come to love them.

As the last of the cherry blossoms sweep
away from this world forgotten,
will you come to realize
they were slowly
whispering
farewell.

-cantabile-

somewhere i have never been
someone i have never seen
someday somehow something
will be there
that i mean
to find
to be mine
will i?

but now my world's a melody
trapped in words and elegy
nothing nothing nothing
can i do
that i do
again
or in vain
i cry

why do you still care for me
when i dream so selfishly
what and what and what is it
you want
that you want
from me
jealousy
deny

and sing a song a song for me
wrapped in love and happily
softly sadly slowly
close your eyes
close your eyes
and sleep
fall asleep
with me

my life is not a broken dream
my words are not insanity
if you can hear
my fading plea
lost in that ever raging wind

=Cafe by a tree=

Before you set out on a journey
without a destination in mind,
be sure to someday visit the cafe by a tree.

I have known many a cafe with trees beside
whether in Imbrium, at Hyde park,
or in a far off countryside.

But the cafe I speak of opens solely for
a single tree just outside the window
and for you, just within.

How I stumbled across that cafe
I have since forgotten. Perhaps the tree
or a desire for coffee drew me in.

Beyond the door and its faltering sign,
you'll notice a window and its tree behind,
before a small table and its two chairs beside.

Someone with flowing green hair
will greet you with an excited smile
as if you were the only customer in awhile.

I ordered a cup of coffee but she came
with two cups and a hopeful glance,
slipping into the other chair when I smiled.

Many questions I might have asked
but my mind was tired so
the aroma of fresh coffee sufficed.

Your eyes will turn to stare
at the unfamiliar and spiking tree
awkwardly defiant over the sands.

As I turned back I thought I glimpsed
the tree's wildness in her hair
and the desolate landscape in her eyes.

But she turned back and she smiled,
just like a contented customer in a cafe
where the taste of coffee sufficed.

What was said I have forgotten already
as the sun falls into the grasp of the tree,
leaving shadows across empty cups of coffee.

She'll rise and clear the table.
As you rise to leave that evening,
she'll offer you a bed for the night.

Her bed is small and firm
but the comforter is huge and soft.
She is so nice and warm.

I dream of a giant bird-plane in the sky,
of a thousand streetlamps in the sea,
of her playing a moon-zither in the tree.

Sunrise was the color of honey tea
we shared with that solitary tree,
remnant of an apocalyptic past in time.

With promises of return, you will leave
a shrinking shadow across an empty cafe
by a girl with evergreen swept hair.

My hairs have grayed with moondust,
under the light of a thousand streetlamps,
the moon-zither you strum so gently
dreams of a cafe by a tree.

=Bus Stops=

Bus stops are the perfect place
to fall in love, whether just two of us,
among a crowd, or on a passing bus.

Waiting turns into surreptitious
glances for a glance, as buses slip past
and turning heads chance upon each other.

Everything else came in threes and twos,
but one came along and hopped aboard
with a broken reverie and tempted smile.

Railings are precariously balanced
under butts whilst seats are shunned.
They'll fall off when Godot comes.

All the while we've been gossiping
before he comes- (about him, naturally)
Comrades-in-waiting, ladies-in-arms.
Oh, did we just miss our bus?

A face by a window flashes and wills.
Turn your head. Stop the bus. Come aboard.
Should I call? Lost child of the curb.
Why did I miss that stop? Press the bell.

We must disembark from this merry-go-round.
Just a little higher, or further, or longer,
Let all the horses run wild, one by one.

What is your favorite bus stop?
Home, or town, or some middling stop?
Mine is wherever you are.

Go away. Hop on and off random buses.
We'll meet. We'll part. We'll seat. We'll start.
Connect the dots and you'll find...

=Blue Eyes=

The eyes of Death are blue.
Not black, as some might guess,
Or any fatal hue.
You wonder now and ask,
How could I ever know.
Ah! I saw him one night,
Trudging through falling snow-
Long scythe, black cloak on white
Carving its way behind-
His hooded guise a blur;
Save his eyes where you'll find
Two orbs wholely azure;
Save his voice where you'll hear
Him call out so precise-
My name and I did fear
It was time for my demise.

=Blanket=

Have you ever flown the night
with your blanket as a sail?
Catch the winds of cold delight
with the moonlight as your trail.

Rising, rising as you unfurl
when I really want to fall
deep within your blanket curl
up into a fetal ball.

The winds tug and rasp and pass,
their fingers creep and bother.
Promises of cake and candied stars
to share with one another.

Slowly, very slowly as you must,
roll up your sail around me,
now moonlight and now stardust
no longer beseech me.

Would you ever fly the night
with your blanket as a shield?
Turn the flames of burning light
into a wish for me and yield.

=Between May and June=

May slips through my fingers
like sand hypnotized by the wind,
scattered puzzle pieces without a picture,
a shattered mirror all taped up,
reflecting everything and nothing,
wan hope and spectered loves,
strange longings without desire,
selfish and costly and so very hurting.

June brings a mounting summer strain,
mildly stifling sleep and stuffy rooms,
endless games of hide and seek,
closet, bathroom, attic, curtains,
under my bed, inside my laptop,
beneath the cobwebs of cyberspace,
imprisoned, enchained, cuffed and trialled,
scrabbling for purchase at the edge
of this knowing cliff waiting to dislodge me,
learning to let go and failing as always,
telling her how sad I will be come June,
how prophetic and sadder still with July,
turning prime and stepping away
from the path laid out before me,
where stars nova in hopeful sacrifice.

=Basilisk=

Another day gone by and yet he sleeps
Still encased by colorless stone within
A sheer layer of ice impenetrable without
Imperfections but abysses at eyeless lids;
Pure darkness worse than mortal fugilin
Stares back at all who dares the basilisk.

Do not tempt fate and approach without
A well-polished mirror if you wish to risk
The fates of these frozen statues you see
Eternal etched eyes, shocked severed shout,
Insanity imprinted images of recalcitrant risk
When those argent lids open so cynically

Pleading for someone to set him free
From this trap we've laid so ingeniously-
Ah! Look, there goes yet another foolish one
Who seeks the basilisk's immortality.
For those who survive his stare inevitably
Age no more- Avert your eyes. Look no more.

Do you feel the threads of despair blindly spun
Around our hearts? Be not afraid. Resist his call.
Do not turn around. Peace demands her sacrifice.
The basilisk awakens again with the setting sun.
Flee! The ground trembles like never before.
Alas! The prophecy has been fulfilled here-

A blind girl's warmth shall melt his heart and ice
But the basilisk shall roam eternity without her.

=Autumn Wood=

Just before the first light of day
Enter the autumn wood, my friend.
Into the rising sun your way
Neatly unfolds until a bend
All swept with leaves upon the track.
Decide now your path where you stand-
No one ahead, no turning back.

How long before you go astray?
Ever chasing shadows yonder
Until the sun sets in the end.
Rest well, my friend, and remember-
I too once left the ochre track.

=Autumn Leaves=

Rustle do the autumn leaves as they fall
Unhurriedly drifting in the faint breeze
Trembling thoughts coalesce in a plaintive call
Heard amidst the sharp silence of the trees.
Young were we once lush with verdant splendor.
Old are we now pale as the setting sun.
Nothing remains but our sense of wonder
Gently ebbing as leaves fall one by one.

Hundreds fall to rejoin the sea of leaves
Under the spell of the winds enchantment
In a last dance rustling with memories,
Each distinct, yet all a blur of movement.
Rustle do the autumn leaves as they sweep
Neath the faint shadow of eternal sleep.

=As the passionless speak=

As the passionless speak
the ghosts of centuries rise from their graves
dragging along regret and begin to sing
and moan and wail and clamor and screaming
crowd before the empty stage
where the passionless speak.

As the passionless speak
the mass of nihilists cringe in their cubicles
of white and blue and smoking circles of yellow
begin to fill up like pufferfish balloons
as together they stare unbelievably at screens
where the passionless speak.

As the passionless speak
the hordes of hedonists rush and stampede
to prostrate themselves before their prophets
proclaimed in a fit of passion and orgasm
with new declarations of infatuations of love
when the passionless speak.

As the passionless speak
scholars and students young and old
quibble and rebel schnell and langsamer
and the psychologists pray with psychiatrists
for divine intercision of patient patients
when the passionless speak.

As the passionless speak
the poets lose themselves in paroxysms of
distaste of lemons and limerical apostrophes
even cats concede their precious time
with a ripple of fresh condescension
when the passionless speak.

As the passionless speak
all my passions flee dreams and bold
gestures desires letters still folded
in their sleeves bleach away their ink
and dye slowly but surely forgotten
in their passionless sleep.

=Happiness=

Happiness is something
we create in our mind.
It's not something you search for
and so seldom find
It's just waking up
and beginning the day
By counting our blessings
and kneeling to pray --
It's giving up thoughts
that breed discontent
And accepting what comes
as a "gift heaven-sent"
It's giving up wishing
for things we have not
And making the best of
whatever we've got
It's knowing that life
is determined for us
And pursuing our tasks
without fret, fume or fuss
For it's by completing
what God gives us to do
That we find real contentment
and happiness,too.

=Alone with me=

Alone with me, the stars so distant seem
to twinkle for my eyes so secretly
for me alone, so I imagine near
and heavenly, but so mistakenly.

Alone with you, the sea so close to me
wraps me so warmly in a waking dream
of you alone, drifting away so far
from me, so return to these faithful shores.

:Alliteration:

How shall I charm thee tonight
With flowery flattery
Or honeyed, hollowed hopes
Disguised as loveless, loving lines
Unheard, unseen, unspoken, until
Voices, faces, voices far
Away, reply, respond, return again
To tell to thee the truth tonight

=aleph-infinity-not=

There exists the set aleph-infinity;
the infinity of infinities
which contains everything and more
it contains that which does not exist
and that which exists no more
only that which will never exist
escapes it but only so
for soon i may create
its anti-set i'll call
aleph-infinity-not

=A World Away=

I wonder if a world away
We share the same cloud-cobbled sky.
Would such primal beauty that holds me sway
Be just as pleasing to another's eye?

How fair my pale soon-setting sun
Compares, yet falters, against your morning star.
Oh, how barely has my evening begun
And your morning passed between thus far.

=A story of you=

You were conceived on a dark and stormy night,
like stories of old, full of elemental fury;
Wind and rain, lightning and thunder,
batter and break, reveal and reverberate,
against and beyond the windows of their soul.

You were ever a bright and precocious child,
so much adored, and chastised even more.
Your sword was raging naiveté
and your shield, a favorite blanket.
When you grew up, both were lost.

You became a rebellious youth
but it was merely a phase, a short one too.
So you studied some, played your piano too,
fell in love but it was too good to be true.
And so you learned and changed and grew.

You were what they called a good man,
in every sense, and so you were.
Your family loved you, and you them.
Relationships, career, health and all,
your life was like a fairy tale.

Your death was slow and graceful.
Faces above you meld with your life
flashing past you back in time.
Your final thought betrays you:
It was a dark and stormy night.

=A Moment of Faith=

If I leave you for a moment
And many moments after,
If I still do not return,
Do not wait for me forever.

For I'll be gone away somewhere,
Somewhere away from here.
Far from every earthly care,
Far from hope and fear:

That you will remember...
That I will forget...
Does it matter?
Do not regret.

It might have never ended
Had I kept my faith throughout.
But what is faith unanswered?
The answer lies without.

Have I not faith enough
To leave you for a moment?
A moment to create a gulf
For moment after moment.

=A different kind of solitude=

Where are my dreams? They are gone with my words.
Where are my words? They are gone with the night.
Where is the night? They are gone with my dreams.
Now in those spaces shall I face
a different kind of solitude.