Spanish Moss

Live Oak draped
in Spanish Moss,
wilting with it
as if weeping
in the sweltering sun.

Autumn never comes here,
only peripatetic monsoons
which bring heavy, soggy freshness.
While through the rain, shivering still,
remains this mossy tree in a breeze
(like sultry girls shimmying
on bars late at night).

After the storm’s passing
the sun dies
an inexorable death, leaving a
saturnine penumbra of tropical magic.
Yet, there remains the dance of
this figure swaying to
quiet, secret music-
jape of the lives we live.

Ache for Numbness

I ache for numbness;
then miss another, deeper aching
for beauty…poetry,
challenge and responsibility.
I want a nice, cozy cell, from which to desire escape.
My irony surrounds and defines me,
shows me freedom.

This is another very old journal entry

Siegfried Idyll

Go and be the breeze
whispering over grassy
silk waves atop verdant,
elegant hills. Rest there
among the familiar tales
of sun ripe Riesling grapes
pearled along the plunging slopes
of castle views over river Rhine.
Go and taste the resilience
of Teutonic history, rising
and falling against the maelstrom
of Viking invaders. Go and
rebuild from scratch what you
know is good and right. Dwell in
the fecund soil of steady passion.
Find skin by the wind.
Find fruit in your heart.
Taste the lambent anodyne
smiling through
sweet, golden wine.

This goes out to my crushes. You know who you are.

tags- Riesling, Rhine

Incandescent Nectar

Anybody read German? When Ralf and I lived together, he transtlated this poem of mine so we could print out cards for both our American and German friends. The photo is one i took of roses he gave me, which I thought looked stunning against the snow.

This poem was inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus. His mystical style touched me deeply. I read a version which had the German and English side by side. So I picked up a little German, too.

The Question

He sat, motionless,
Veined alabaster marble,
Staring through a crystal ball,
Casing the scene, waiting for the
Answer, or another start.
Warm water had rinsed
Clean all childhood dreams and
Cleared his heart. His
Chest ended sighs, void of
Burdens they had shared
Days ago, as his last ploy
Pushed them apart, perhaps with
Intent to shield ignorant flesh from
Shattering fragments, atomic breath.
“I know you don’t love me” uttered
Callously, through stoic glare.

Walls had slid out of place, floors
Angled straight down icy cliffs, caving to
Nothing so palpable as stormy hell,
Nor poetic as lonely emptiness.
Everything lost its name without departure.
His Robert Rauschenberg poster,
Fragments pasted helter-skelter,
Remained, a flat reflection of
Quiet decay.

Attempting his usual joy, his

World slid away, wrapped around his

Ankle with a serpentine choke-hold.

He
Watched,

Watching his perceptions
Flow helplessly along and away and
Out, where ever anchors go in bottomless pits.

Echoes of clanging steel canisters
Coded everyone’s thoughts, so
Only he could see the conspiratory, stale
Faces pretending to smile. His
Hollow cave strained with leering alibis,
Empty of furniture to rest upon.
Until now. Slumped form,
Droll doll, dry of bubbling spring, his
Question had been answered, washed
Swirling through wretched
Tubes of a shower drain. The

Pained heart beating
Before this vacant house would
Ask, echo-less, “Why?” as
Long as blood flowed
Through thin, tenuous
Skins, holding days
Trembling in place.

For B, the beating heart which will never heal, after our once happy, goofy, loving friend, M disappeared before he took the life of his body six months ago. The astonishing swiftness with which this hearty, spirited man was emptied of soul will remain an eternal unanswered question.

Technorati tags- poem, suicide, schizophrenia, bi-polar, loss