today it rained

*
sky so low the gray

brushed my skin,

body sending

sweet perspiration

back to the sky

*

the air, heavy wet

lost it’s grip,

stippled my windshield

*

was it gunshot or thunder,

curses or prayers last night

directing my dreams

a sonnet for the night

night sonnet

As twilight succumbed to night’s inkish cloak,

A melodic penumbra enticed me.

It beckoned me nigh, the instruments broke

Through a distance that tends to define me.


Abreast of the band pulsed the undulant

Crowd as the bass ground my hips to its groove

The saxophone wailed a lick of consent

To the trombone that had nothing to prove.


The drummer kept pace, our rhythms entrained

As the energy wound us together

The shadows, we pushed, the players, they strained

Over the improvisational tether.


Hands lifted high, momentum increased

To the infinite night our desires released.

sandcastles

IMG_7420

 

I.

we were torn apart

(she and i were torn apart)

 

i feared her, being her

feared she would

shatter on contact

or sweep me away

in her riptide

 

although she had no body she was drowning

 

II.

once upon a time

we made peace

 

building sandcastles

at the shoreline

 

the rolling surf

drowns out curses

and our pleas

to each other

to be right

to be loved

to belong

 

what is constant in this inconstancy

 

III.

tides rise and fall

the moon swaps

place in the sky

with the sun

 

everyone knows he would be nothing without her

 

IV

i reach for arms

of  seaweed

on the sand

braiding the strands

 

giving structure

to the wild beauty

 

the muse

IMG_5606-2

The ancient muse who comprehends

the unexpected ebb and flows

and language where all language ends

relieves the snow with spring’s amends

while keeping steady in repose.

That ancient muse does comprehend

the breath between two souls transcends

tornadic tangoed lovers’ throes

and language where all language ends.

More fragile than the mind intends

(while hide and seeking) to disclose

the ancient muse does comprehend

the cages made to self-defend

but gently coaxes out from those

in language where all language ends

a whispered, “yes.”  The heart extends

a slow-unfolding gossamer rose

to the ancient muse who comprehends

the language where all language ends.

The repeating line “language where (all) language ends” was taken from Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem,”On Music”, which arrived in my inbox through Every Day Poems on Tuesday April 14.  

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