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?

On A Summer Night

The jasmines look up at the sultry moon and smile
their luscious scent wafts in on the silky breeze
embracing me gently, kissing my bare shoulders
and the world dances the sensual dance of desire
in beautiful, graceful moves and delicate swirls
dreaming of destruction and creation within it.

The heavy moon hangs in the arms of a cloud
the ocean shimmers in silent, silvery waves
I light the lamps of clay with fragrant oil
and hang them on grass blades along the banks
I look for your footsteps on abandoned paths
and scatter flowers, songs and dreams along them.

Graves In Gray Mist

They were young when they have died
their graves sit still on the grassy hill
as birds glide silently on westerly winds
on a gloomy day full of rain and chill.

The trees, they are sad and full of fog
they hide their faces in gray clouds
late winter blooms on earth and sky
but their tears dance on the grounds.

They were young and they have died
their deaths left to our interpretation.
Is there ever a meaning to anything?
Yet, we continue to spin and sing
in the same old path carved into time
and we go on living the lives of our forefathers.

The Mysterious Ways Of Heart

I look at him as he smiles gently and warmly
my heart warms and I have the urge to hold him
between my hands to kiss him and possess him.

The moon is a tricky gent. He plays the notes
and cool droplets of desires and dreams shimmer
on the waxy banana leaves. Oh, the scent of skin!

The wanderer with a cool flame in his eyes
and an uncertain smile on his hesitant lips.
Where is his sensitive blue touch tonight?

Yet Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves

Early this morning there was a purple dream
the Sun in orange glow drifted over the ocean
setting the wings of Willets on a golden fire.
For a moment I saw Phoenixes everywhere
I saw life, death and the eternal recurrence
and I tried to will you into existence next to me.

Does each thought have a color?
What is color anyway? A perception?
For you it must be blue.
For me, I don't think I actually know.
Lately I have been shrouded in a gray fog
and I need to clear my head and my heart.

I think we each have a choice
but there is a tender comfort in knowing
that a beautiful death awaits everything.
For we must eventually kill .. kill all things we love.

The Night I Was Born

There was a storm of historic proportions
and my grandmother said to my mother
"Watch out! This child here is trouble".
I smiled in my sleep and swallowed
the dark clouds and the terrible winds.

I am made of fierce, fecund things
a wild child with a storm for a soul
with the deep blue ocean for a heart
the dark sparkle of night for eyes
and  a passion for beauty and truth.