what of those remembered patterned hills
upon which I once imagined
heroic conflicts of bloodless wars
while driving in a summer’s idyll
to holiday beyond the shores
from one land to the next we travelled
passing the scars of history
that litter still my bosomed home
rendered mute against a lost past
that scattered broken hegemony
which sanctifies this landscape still
as all is framed so beautifully
by those remembered patterned hills.
this stone embrace
marble veiled
sublime
and held in time
forever
shall
for all its grace
not know the peace
of frail heartbeats
together.
for that single kiss
to taste the sigh on your lips
I would sell my soul
the poetry I really feel
remains inside,
unrevealed.
on occassion, if they decide
these words themselves
no longer hide.
but if they choose to not be free
please do not think less
of me.
for one day soon as you will see
they’ll all come out
eventually.
I dream of April
though not of the spring to come
it is September
the last man who knew everything
had never picked a rose
nor questioned righteous hegemony
in which corruption grows
and failed to find the beauty
of a simple happenstance
or the eternal truth one sees
in accepting innocence
what was this sand before
it filled the hourglass
are there parts of mountains
measuring this past
like ripples on the morning shore
left golden by the waves
the grains that fall into what was
show time cannot be saved
the eyes of morning
betray the dreams behind them
you are my mirror
let these lips just play with you
and have you stroke them back
each dip and peak in temperature
each heartskip, beat and crack
reserved for this soft whisper
this all exquisite kiss
a flawless crystal shard of time
the moment held in bliss
moon dappled sidewalk
painted in the midnight rain
chiaroscuro
