For Words

I am mostly sad for the words
not because they are unspoken
but because they are; so freely
uttered with beautiful abandon.

Spoken from the realm of thought
they morph into weightless forms.
Vacuous, they float like feathers
casting silvery, slippery shadows
like ghosts in abandoned rooms.

But unspoken words? They are different.
They are made of earth and water
you hear them only if you are careful
like the faint chimes in a gentle wind.
Spoken from the depths of the soul

they are made of melancholic beauty

you feel them only if you are poetic.

The Man Wearing A Red Shirt

I see him silhouetted against the cool gray dawn of the city
on a street full of rich houses protected by huge iron gates
forbidding and frightening; the wealth must feel alien to him.
He is leaning against a tree with his shoulders drawn back
his red cotton shirt has the texture like that of artificial flowers
his eyes are distant and confused like he woke up in a dream.

For a second, I imagine him in his homeland on a morning like this
he is sitting outside, under the flowering almond tree in his courtyard
his children are running around and one of them shrieks in delight
while his wife is hunched over the wood stove and the dog by her side.
The smoke obscures the scene for me, protecting their private moment.

I feel my heart ache violently like I am experiencing a quake.
Is this compassion? Empathy? I feel the beauty of my heart.
I look at him and I decide to carry that face in my memory
I pray for him and his unborn great grand children
and I offer solemn, beautiful tears to mother earth.
May he find peace, beauty and safety for him and his family!

Selfish Lover

He slipped out of the room before dawn
while I lay in bed lost in a beautiful fog
clad in pure nakedness and vulnerability
caressing seductive thoughts and verses
and soft kisses linger in the gray shadows.

I do not know when or why he arrives
but his charm is irresistible; so are his stories.
He does not ask permission but forces his way
into the deepest crevices of the subconscious.
There, he finds the subliminal and forbidden
and then he invites me to dance with him.

A slow, dangerous tryst at the edges of madness
where a fierce desire conjures up words and metaphors.
They arrive on winged white horses in chaotic order
a blue fire ignites and burns. It burns long and slow.
And then it happens. A streak of light flashes through
and the words and songs fall in their rightful places.
He leaves as quietly and forcefully as he arrives.
I am left wanting more but the bliss of his love is brief
I don't even know him but is there reason to know?