The Poet.

I have a face cut from the hatching of thought,

my pungent senses dance between the melodies of my eyes,

like star-crossed lovers meeting to witness the grand opera

of reality and they watch like wildflowers as the skeletons of

old wine sing from the balcony of heaven.

The mother of us all: The silent light that darkens the room.

I've been waiting for the morn

to strike again! The ancient guide to take me by the hand

and like a distant whisper, pull me close. It is the triumphant

lament: The scattering of roses upon my sick bed. To stir the

frozen eclipse that sputters frost like a crying child...The golden

communion where the poet, with his great visions sees reality

from the cross....

the wind between two heavenly kingdoms startles the pupils,

and being very intelligent the poet rubs his eyes, with the farce

of his cabbage-green fingers

and reading the novel of his senses,

under the jibes of his soft heart,

ringing like the bells of a cathedral,

finally trembles in surrender.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this one Startled my pupils.
This is such amazing poetry...the imagery here just jettisons from beginning to end.

to "finally tremble in surrender"---
yes, the writing of poetry is much like that...we have that cross to bear...and can love it or hate it, but we surely die on it.
j.

[Emily B]

Your words are alive. They come off the page and echo around me

[Betty Hermelee]

Sometimes the poet has nothing to write. he/she needs the stimulation to compose, wherever that comes from; be it the heavens or simple reality. Your images are stunning, and the poem just flows and flows...a really well- written piece.
Thank you for sharing,
Betty

[duff]

I like how smooth your writing flows. It just works. Great lines from start to finish. Nice job.