THE NIGHT IS BEAUTIFUL

THE NIGHT IS BEAUTIFUL

The night is beautiful

With its lips full

Upon the thighs of Summer.

It swirls the moon

Through clouds and spews

It high and bright and round

The dome of its fine home.

Crickets in their dark

Lovemaking, sing the praises

Of the grass and breezes,

A rhythmic transubstantiation

Played in scraping stridulation

To a counterpoint of August dark.

There, then and only then,

We take our breath out walking

On the milky paths of full moon

Shining and cast our glances deep

Into its lap of dreams, to hold

Just but a moment, for a moment

Only, all the crazy swirl of star

Light unto ourselves that we

May be this way before it.

INDUSTRY

Rebecca Gozion

INDUSTRY

I had an emotional bypass,

A valve job on my feelings.

Now I’m pure Teflon II.

Nothing sticks, nothing penetrates.

I have no reaction.  Go ahead

Say something beyond description.

A white froth stays on my lips.

I am overcome by drugs generated in my glands.

Tears in my upholstery:

I’d like to give you something

Wonderful.  I look for something

And go blind.

When these doors open

I expect love.

No reflection.

No models.

Sores in the heart

That won’t heal.

DREAM BRIDGE

 Egon Schiele

 Tibet

Monbetsu - Hokkaido

DREAM BRIDGE

I am the bridge of dreams.

I am bounded only by waking.

I am beyond the law.

I am part of life and of death.

I am the bones of the stars.

I am the color of the universe.

I am far islands the morning

Before the carnival.  I am

The sparking end of the power cable

Spitting into the night full of rain.

I am the sound of ten thousand

Tree frogs - the rain forest.

I am the coughing of the jaguar.

In the morning steam rises from me.

The dawn streams through my head.

I hold you close and move inside

Your body.  I taste your skin and

It is sweet and salty writing as I enter you

Again and again just as you awaken.

I am gone seconds after your eyes open.

REMEMBERING THE JUNGLE

Albert Bierstadt- A View of Niagara Falls from the American side.

REMEMBERING THE JUNGLE

If we could only

Remember how the

Words worked, the ones

That helped change the seasons

So that no one would notice

Until time itself had piled

Up snow or leaves or

Rain upon rain into the center

Of a month, but we

Could not. Here faces were burned

Off, limbs were regarded

As cord wood, milk spilled

From mouths. We could not

Begin to disguise our disgust

Of the shape dreams made

On the walls of our villages.

Someone said the wands had been

Taken from the area long ago.

Still, we could see lights in the jungle

Night occasionally. They were music.

They were our voices.

We thought they were our homes on fire.

PANIS ANGELICUS

PANIS ANGELICUS

The hour of the Angelus.

The shortest day of the year.

The room all but deserted

But for the figure resting

On the bed, not on light depending.

Hail Mary. The grace of sleep

Through her fine bones

Lift her to vision.

Elizabeth in the next room

Hears nothing, but the soft light

Has a music to it.

Be it done unto me according

To thy word.  The language of flowers.

The angel may or may not have

Beautiful wings, may or may not

Be genuflecting next to Mary,

May or may not be whispering,

May or may not be a dreaming,

But the soft light has a music to it.

O res merabilis!  Unaque poscimus

Sic nos tu visita,  ad lucem quam inhabitas.

            Translation:

 What wonder! We beg of you

That you visit us, the light in which you dwell.

A SMALL TRINKET HELD TO THE SUN

 Albert  Sebille - 5th Centruy B.C. Greek Ship

 Evgeni Gordiets

Listening to the music of the wind - Matthais Haker

This poem is from my collection WHERE THE STARS ARE KEPT.  RATTLESNAKE PRESS - copyright 2007 - 

A SMALL TRINKET HELD TO THE SUN

There is a point where I

Brushed a picture of you across

My mind.  A landscape near the sea.

Unable to bring the islands

Into focus, I called upon the weather.

Moisture in the air, a discrepancy of temperature

Between the forms of water.  Captured

Here, a moment of the heart; alone,

Unaccustomed to such luxury it

Speaks aloud.  "I love you," it says.

We traveled from Paris to Barcelona,

Giving gray to blue, as easily as kisses

Between friends.  The sunlight on

Your face, a certain music in your voice.

In the sky tram above the harbor,

We saw Columbus pointing up Las Ramblas.

"I'll make up a story about our being here,"

I promised.  What would happen?

Now November closes door after door, trying

To end the year as graciously as possible.

I hold you in my arms before you go

To sleep tonight.  The Leonoid meteor

Shower blasts through us; little holes

In every fabric, all unnoticed.

Another song begins, despite the hour.

I listen to it carefully.  We rain into each other.

High above this place, we flash signal after signal.

A SLIGHT BREATHING

 William Blake - Satan before the fall.

A SLIGHT BREATHING

Hovering over the words,

Herding them, moving them

Into small groups. Full of meaning.

Here, the description of the heavens

Staggers forward, dragging

Its collection of constellations

Behind it; fully aware

That these pictures are but part

Of light seen from a single

Place, struggling to maintain

Themselves as the heavens

Reel around them.

These, are the words of lovers.

There is no end to them.

They slide and describe,

Word after word, the varieties of touch;

Definite descriptions, of flesh

Meeting flesh, in all temperatures and climates.

Gratefully, we follow these things,

Charmed that language

Allows us such rooms,

Such variety of discourse.

From the dark hills comes

The coughing of lions,

Calls of birds. William

Blake, moving room to room

Searching for the right phrase.