The stuff of poetry

What is the stuff of poetry?
The stems of birch,
The light of night,
the person going
around a corner
far away.

The sounds of fall,
and of winter.
It is, I think,
and I don't know,
because who can know,
that marmalade is very,
very poetic.

Back pain is not
poetic.

Eyes of life

Look into the eyes of life
and say you love your future
spreading down the generations
your eyes and mine together
mix them brown, with sparkling destiny
and you'll be kissed with love

Marginalia

Those little marks we make in books
a salutation over time over time,
that punch the mind to volumes
refusing to remain silent.

Sometimes I'm a marginalia to the world
punching through and judging
with a black line intersecting you
that I like what you're giving
or condemn, and sigh.

You haven't read a book,
until you've done so with a pencil.
Now, can you read the world without
one either?

Impossible dream of love

Impossible dream of love
the longing rush
seeing lips, full, pouting and
white teeth within with beautiful words.
Who cares, but womanhood embodied says,
attain me.
And I know, that you are a dream I do
not want.

Conditionless love,
my craving, and there is none.

Children playing at your feet, stars in
your eyes, power, like a
lighthouse shine,
then on the shores, a brittle past.

I, polished stand, lay with longing lips,
seeing futures fade on our common path
she, standing there, whole.

I, of many colors, black recedes;
and ivory politeness shields - though
cracks are there, to show myself,
a longing, hiding self, morose - and,
unlike the me I wish to show,
a desert, dank - pale, bleak - that you
get lost in - to fade yourself.

Climbing up, yet going down

Also I am capable of happiness
I know                    I remember it, 
Like dew on a leaf, lined in light
tough fog, silent, covers all.

I am the moist moss, bending
though not from wim - but heavy sorrow.

And I am the fog too,
only hanging forgetfully.

And I think I am the ground, too,
soil ground, worms are my dearest
friends. Those, that like satellites blink
to me and say, what, I cannot hear.

But I used to be happy too,
maybe I'll remember soon.

Like that light hit that tree

Like that light hit that tree
my mind is struck
by nothingness
Its shadows cast on memories
colourful shimmering, truly,
now dull.

And like that shadow struck that wall,
I hide behind myself
and smiles that reach the eye, reach
no longer - freeze - and I
like that tree in winter stands
waiting for a summer
far, far away.

Night Delight

The light luminous matte dusty
mindscape swims, along it then
receding triangles like pale blue
flags, bowed lines flowing -
and I a hand squeezing split lips
in confused delight
drumming fingers
hand following vedge divine
and waking from the sands of sleep
to find and after, there, of love;
Of midnight waking dreams embrace
send sleepy warmth with
swift lucidity to come
to come and then recede like waves
pulled by moonlight into sea, and
yet again to dream and wash away
to be a castaway
on (the) shores of morning.

I have many faces

I have many faces,
morning thinness travel to light
regal day, hubris springs the brow,
puffed midnight pulled by weights
and ashen dashed
waxed by snow.

I remember, and remembrance then moves
liveliness for faces traveling overpowered
then I grasp for fear of losing face.

Calmness settles, concrete tasks descend the brow
to fall in hardship lines around the eyes,
and swollen bags of sleep
pouring on morning
on a new thinness for meeting dog.

Vanishing Point

Mother has an angular size
of about two feet.
My son is towering over me.

How small then, is a syrian man,
far away on my drawing,
half a dot in a crowd
impossible to draw.

He is one with the horizon line,
far beyond the vanishing point
of my small format frame
of mind.

Then he was not bound

I remember a man who said;
Free will is dead. We are nothing
but a machine, and chemistry
will not obey the mind.

Then a girl walked up to him:
"I do as I please - and no one told
me I was bound. Once I moved
a mountain up a hill."

The man then said:
"I have been foolish to see
a blocked path where there is none.
From this day I shall be free
and not bound."

And the universe burns with me

He looked into the sky,
then sat on a stone.
"Like a fire is the universe,
and what we call peace
is ashes."

"My hands are burning,
I am burning,"
he ate to add fuel
to the fire.
"And the universe
burns with me."

He rose. His back ached,
and his muscles were sore.
"Soon I am ash,
soon I am at peace.
And the universe directly after."

Lacuna

A lake in the starry night
bobbing in a boat with squelches
pulling towards a lacuna
A perfect gap in memory filled
by vain conjecture.
The boat drops into the void
falling like forever
like the moon's reflection hanging
                  in space