A winter sere upon ashen cypress leaves A paradise among a ghoul of wind, a fragile river, Where I, I will stay beside a midnight tomb that rose a shiver, Alas in the time!—the entombed willows illuminate the trees, And I will wake from frail calls, lonely, enkindled by the breeze. I will wake in … Continue reading A Winter Sere.
On the gloaming surf of the dark shore, I lay my abled hands on the crimson darkened porcelain glass On the shadows of warmth, etched from a pale glistening scar of an ivory white that blooms in miry winter And I trace—pressing against the folds and hems of skin that caves in pearl, frail ash, … Continue reading Oh, Dream.
We stopped in the primordial catacombs Waiting for the wrinkled aromas unto fresh Italy, And fog that had diverged the roots, laine with fallen roses; And I’ve heard the lonesome flow around the shore, Unrest among the madmen and women in the streets, And no more betwixt the gleaming roads, and yellow winters From before—“Let … Continue reading A Red Hyacinth.
Primordial of the language havocs the ghost, havocs the charring wood, as it hushes the daylight by the opaque fog above a motionless hillock, and I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I … Continue reading Morning Snow. (Prose)
Buried under the heaps of the apple pommes, The pomace piled on the path of rain, And we were on the dim stones and bloodroots And stamped, feeding fleurs de lotus; The moon pardons in a red silence, a crying reverie, And it hosts light; begot blue springs, Buried under the flickering of its flower, … Continue reading Shadow of the Dream.
At the flares of rivers, flames crackle studded and dead when they withdraw from the cold. The darkness recedes over the bejeweled haycocks crying, as my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the … Continue reading I’ll Keep. (Prose)
Light, midnight, On moorlands, summoning fate, Alone, viceroys break Every pretty tear that rises And carries wind in lone summoning fate. As scars gleam in twinkling nightfall, as they fall to rest Upon trees, a thousand feet, that dance in sunlight, And worshipped on a pretty brow, bends the river-way And worshipped on pallid rests, … Continue reading Viceroy.
The window stirs upon the rain, Alone upon the candles, drips in trochee Blemishes on a lost idyll beyond a pane, We stayed and went as a quiet strain Upon the shawl, all around the darkened sea, Just like the memory as it rests, may it stay. Down, the twist of shawl at the rim … Continue reading Where Does It Leave?
Silence as the beating river in the ghoul of a northern wind, Silence as the beating river in the ghoul of a northern wind I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls The northern river kneels, beating pearls, As the shawl … Continue reading A Northern Wind.
Winter tear drops leave upon the white flickers in the sea, Where I’ve looked to the red droplets that were dark as geraniums, Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone, Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in … Continue reading Mid-Dream.
River of lone which grabs the bloodied, hanging bough upon a wisp dead tree Where the darkened deep sea could bring me the tears from a shattered rock that shadows the sun, As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom Would fall dead at the bed of falling … Continue reading The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.
Shines above, the light that finds The sea’s protest and the dream of a wildflower, Where the trees of death were made with patted seeds By the bygone dream’s shadow that pleaches Virgin buttresses from this cold pearl of the night. Autumn is the dark, dark Leaf that floats through some wind now, Along with … Continue reading A Wildflower Dream.
The weaved hung warmth of vernal flame, That which kissed upon the tears through The hollowed smoke, which turns the eve. The golden dale washed through the sea As the reflection of the drafts that were bound to death To the stones that float, whisked by a gentle air With a chill to the dainty … Continue reading Dusk Alone.