A Field of Echoes
… and mind flutters to a close
eyelids to slumber
all over, a certain darkness emerges
earth is populated with nothing
but a tempered sigh t
night flashes white underwear
as meteor, quickly closes her thighs
mortified by the radiance of stars
she grows shy as mimosa pudica
dies from shame of too much conceit
from a sprawling field of echoes
life raises its braided head of beads
butterflies flutter, wings bearing pollen
far off, rainbow fishes in sea of grey clouds
for anagrams, net dripping rain
mushroom places on rotten wood
a proud crown; elsewhere stanzas sit
by a fire, warming my naked toes
poems gasp for air, rising as spark
neck held by grasping fingers of smoke
across the waistline of thought
a belt of black ink runs, crossing eyes
draining teas, sighs of my muse
melding myriad meanings mindlessly
in frame of flowers and wilful weed
sometimes a poem is dreamed
as pollen, sometimes a twig
or line of awakening like this
tells you the mind is gone
to dwell, as smoke, among the clouds
Shadow
forlorn being, crazed stalker, shadow
you follow every thing, every where
not form or substance, hue of sorrow,
darkness assumes you, mimicking life
mocking every move and movement
you are what light chases out of things
silent cry, not alive or fully formed
edges taper off to hide your vapid spirit
in frame of arabesque light, flowing into
the surrounding nothingness of being
what hides in things is without blood
it escapes as wraiths in body and form
chest without heart, eyes without sight
mouth open, uttering not a single sigh
poem not written, projections without
hungry to be seen or heard or known
aching to be touched or felt to become
dark like this soul, flowing from within
poetry of deep-lying reflection of things
shadow of something dying to be loved
