Summer, with You

My amour, I hear your sultry voice now
in the breeze over the wave-kissed hot sand,
in children's laughter, humming of the fans;
in the soft thud when sun-soaked trees untie
their gifts—cherries, peaches, mangoes, grapes—
and let the love-parched fingers of the ground
breathe them. My amour, I can hear the sound
of your footsteps nearing. But I feel blue:
Wish I could keep you, hold on to you—how
cruel you are! Won't you stay—say you do—
here a little longer this time around?
Or else, Summer, my love, take me with you.
Take me, take me, take me, with you. With you.
With you.

Poem as Empty Words of Love

We are dead words equipped with sounds,
like pretty mannequins with guns
propped up against the parapets
fake-protecting a fort called love
and not even knowing it. The
susurrus of silken kisses,
neck on neck, breast caressing breast,
naked, exposed, but not undressed,
dead words touching, promiscuous,
lips feverish—mellifluous
gibberish, beau geste.

This River

This river of lava flows,
bleeding orange and molten gold—
oh the scent of hot stone
and anguish, the sound
of charring tendons and bones….
Meanwhile miles away the sheep
are returning from grazing in the field,
and the shepherd’s face reveals
a faint smile—that used to be
me before
this river of shame flowed
into me.

Haiku

Crows across the pub
Repeated sound of spoiled bread
dipped in fresh puddles

Hands Full of Rocks and Grapes

I came back home with grapes and rocks.
Some smiled, I saw some too who frowned.
The grapes I picked up at the store.
The rocks I found along the way.
Perhaps some looked and thought: What for?
With hands full of assorted rocks...
But why that plastic bag of grapes?
What plans he got for these today?
For certain not to squash the grapes!
To play with rocks while eating grapes?
To play with grapes while eating rocks?
Perhaps this man is far from sound:
There's not a reason, we are sure,
To carry home those grapes and rocks.

Gentle Touch

To write a poem feels as though a game 
Like hide-and-seek: To speak but make no sound. 
Winnicott said that it's a joy to be
Hidden, disaster, if you're never found. 

Meantime I hide behind the rhyme and feet,
And hope you love me or the game so much,
To step around the words and reach inside,
To say "I see you".  With a gentle touch. 

Short Poems #1-2

I live inside a box I've formed of sounds 
of letters—meaning-making music, bounds 
of human-living—written (voiced), to rhyme
and rhythm.

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Existence: Side effect of death, decay.
So many never birthed; but birthed, all die.
Thus life is fall from death; but death is whole.
Death is the soul; and life, entombed remains.