Spare me not

spare me not love’s violence
and let bloody passions bless
me with the murder of a kiss
save me from indifferent peace
rather cut a wounds caress
and gift me tortured bliss.

Light

the moon
sings not sweet songs
to shame the music
of the stars
she strives not
to prove them wrong
nor does she
in whim
vain pride impart
with lyric fair
their sparkle dim
for her light
enough is art

Dusk Seductive

the dusk, seductive dusk.
what mischief it plays
with the weight of day’s end
take not to task
its willfulness
in having us believe
this is a day, new conceived
rather than its death.

Full Season

the son of water
rained upon this full season
to swell its reason
into life
from lifeless, fragrant days

autumn is not fall
’tis resurrection
harvesting
the poet’s desire
to cast the sun kissed sleep away
and wakened into beauty stray.

Clay (unfinished fragment)

though we may return
to the basest clay
from whence we came
as broken vessels;

that which we had held within
does eternal remain.

Waking

the waking
tasted of foreboding
and unresolved schemes
of cold moments
forgotten,
and half pictured dreams
the waking
into confusion
what trial lies before
and what would this waking
hold to me more
than the wakings
before I was dead
to the sweetest moments
held soft abed,
and no more awakening
nor unsettled mind
let me leave my wakings
to dawns left behind
for I need not awaken
my sins to remind
that sleep be a penance
with no forgiveness to find.

What Sport?

what sport,
what jest,
how best
are played
these whims of gods above
their blinded mischief doth allay
us all,
yet fall,
we do in love
with their myth and mystery
our shallow doubts invent
dare we inspect our histories
for deities intents

When She Wakes

when she wakes
the whole world breaks
into shards
a million shapes
which in countless colours shine
as the night is left behind
and brings forth calico dawn
of patterned sunlight on the morn
a tapestry of passion born

Saturn

Kronos, blue as time itself
yet quieter and serene
father to a million tears,
are you in shackles
imprisoned as are we
to the noise of passing years

The Stream

the stream has an air of familiarity
it is not the waters of home…

…yet

like a song played
in a different key
its running whispers
still speak to me