Ascetic Rain On The Blue Mountain
On the drop dead
Up upon the seventh crest
The caressing sky
In puffs of dizzy clouds
Through the moments of rain
Worldlessly as ever
Beating in lapses of eternity
Of so many spangles
The leafy world, listening
Chorus of lullaby:
Symphony of windy breeze
Crying in bristles of thorns
At the foothill
Of the blue mountain
In collage of pressing rains
And spell-binding grandeur
Of the surrounding mist
Baring her seismic breast, hungry
To root out the dust and ashes
Of the ascetic rains coming down
On the dead dewdrop
Merged and submerged in montage
Of ascetic rains, befalling…
Transgalactic Love Affair
They say, our definition of space
is populated by an image of stars
that have to travel light years before they can reach our eyes.
Each one, a Message sent into the past.
A picture, as old as the time it took to get here.
They say looking into a night sky is like reliving History.
We are two galaxies spinning madly together,
in a nature of direction; we will never quite understand.
She inscribes lettered words into her breath
and sings them into glass bottles that are sent
all the way across the earth.
They arrive as soon as the Wind allows them to.
It is just Autumn, and the falling Sun wraps crimson arms around the horizon
like a hug too empty to feel like a home away from loneliness.
As light dwindles into nightfall. I imagine the arrival of her message…
Oh how the breeze must feel that evening.
This moment’s Darkness,
a reminder of the distance between us now.
The absent pair of stars from her eyes
are bronzed fallen leaves under a magnifying glass.
Brown raised hands, as they volunteer vital pieces of themselves
as tributes into a state of temporary.
and here I am hoping I will last longer than one season.
And the only thing I can imagine,
is that the empty spaces between our distancing fingertips
are not only filled with expired love letters.
That after all the light years are traveled,
and I receive the message that says she loves me.
It will not be a component of the past but of the only present that we know to be true.
Poehemian: a poet or artist who does not adhere to the norm; a bohemian of poetry or art; a poet or artist who is quite possibly (subconsciously or consciously) inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.
"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence." -Edgar Allan Poe