Where you stand
in the dusk
at the time of stars
and dew,
Hope will take
your hand
and guide you
through
to where once
the breath of love
blew pleasant days
and peals of laughter
with arrow’s speed flew.
Hope will take your hand
Tag Archives: Poetry
When the days ahead are misty
When the days ahead are misty,
No birds, no sun, no horizon,
Only pasturing clouds blocking
The shimmering view,
When the nights expand their hours
Like an endless starless sea
And your heart feels like a mellow sunset
Farewelling its summertime quest,
Remember your soul is the captain
Immune to the darkness ahead.
A world that matches the soul
Some say I am lost in a dream,
in a world that does not exist.
But they are wrong. It does exist.
In the deep forests, the vast lakes,
the sparkle of the sea,
the blossoming of a wildflower.
They sit in their glass and steel offices
and laugh at me, calling me a child.
But one day, when life forces them to see,
really see through their eternal eyes
and not the cultured mind,
they will not laugh any longer.
For I believe that a world that matches the soul
is not a dream, but the real world.
The world that was always meant to thrive
before humanity learned to close their eyes
and call reality a dream.
Angels can’t love
I walk into the shop I’ve been to many times before.
But now I am someone else.
I see them in there.
Those who come from the past.
They look different.
They see me.
Eyes opening wide.
They see me.
They see that I am beautiful.
More beautiful than before.
They walk over to me.
They want to be close to me.
Arms reaching for me.
That is when I see him.
Something passes between us.
A movement.
But he is not the one to protect me
when the war comes.
When the machine guns come.
Someone else steps in front of me.
I wait for death.
But it doesn’t come.
I see him again.
He is kneeling down.
Someone points a gun at me.
I start crying.
Wings slowly grow
from his shoulder blades.
The soldiers smile and nod their heads.
“Finally,” they say.
“That is what it took.”
They lay down their guns.
I am still crying.
I am safe.
But I am not loved.
Angels can’t love humans.
Not the way we need to be loved.
Exclusively. Exceptionally.
As though we were the only one
needing to be loved
by them.
*This is actually a dream I had while sleeping.
Within the swimming night
Within the swimming night
I can make out
Your
Open heart
Bound by the moon
With its silver arms
Leaning into the window
With hands extended
So that my soul can step out
Of its paralyzed shell
To greet your
Darkness
With its one broken
Wing.
The Quarrel in your mind
The quarrel in your mind is
This promise of a firstborn miracle.
An accumulation of lyrical trailing thoughts
Rustling in the damp light.
A year’s precise fear is
Paralyzed by peace rippling
Into a chrysalis of extinguished time.
The rest is dissolved by beginnings.
A small wing twinkles delicately
As it slips through the weave
Of confounded memories
Washed away by too many
Perfect sunsets.
An extension of his dream
The rain has merged into solitude
The moon stares straight into dawn
Like a an anchored searchlight.
The wet wind has frozen the lines
Around his unchanged laughter
Reaching for me in his sleep;
An extension of his dream
Searching for a bare shore
Where troubled waves
Can merge into the familiar crescendo
Of sand and sea.
Like a tear in the sky
The sun stretches
like a tear
In the sky
Full of blue-green ocean
Biting at the clouds
Looking like angels
Without skin
Replacing the air
With their pilling
Breaths.
Dawn’s Secret Ways
When I was born dawn’s secret ways
tattooed a map upon my heart.
Vivid rays impatiently drawing
every moment a butterfly’s wings
brushed the sun.
Until my soul was a museum
of extraordinary things
opening its doors
first to myself
then to the world.
The Summer Sea
The summer sea is a mirror
you dive into,
a coral mirage gushing
into rivers,
fleeing slowly into gardens
where carnations dream
of anemones dizzily
racing towards the surface
of the summer sea
where you kneel on a cliff
looking into
yourself.
The Paths of the Spirit 