we who are wearywe who were afraid of those dim evenings,
homesick for the soft rains which were
are uncertain again of
the waning stroke of the moon.
we who embrace the wicked
leave the seasons to maneuver themselves
and wind into each other,
sure of their graceful oblivion.
we who are weary descend,
following our fingers as they are rising,
the thick air before it can kill,
we who were once war personified,
warn them of our great coming.
and we shall not run,
january, the last moonbase of 2014The fatigue-factories
for the holidays,
into light, casual clouds.
It's two weeks of middling sleep,
a lucidity in calm.
I'll read Kushner and Heany,
rest like the pigeon guards
snoozing in the peaceful night
when morning, their branch-goblet
capturing the arctic infinity
of moisture above.
The moon, shining,
Winter PoemThe snow is falling
Covering the ground in white fluff
Cold but quiet
Beautiful and soothing
Snuggling with loved one
Drinking hot cocoa by the window
Decorating the tree with the kids
Having dinner with family on Christmas eve
Wishes being fulfilled on Christmas day
World peace for a 24-hour time
Children playing in the cotton white ground
Opening gifts and sharing sweets
Sitting by the fire
Dog sleeping by your side
By the window side
"Winter time is beautiful"
I think as I kiss my Katy
"I love you all my friends"
I say as I hug Lillian
In This Little Microcosm
In this little microcosm
a world of patterns exist
Water and sand collide, creating intricate forms.
Some smooth and long, others tight.
Parts of the earth, stronger and fixed,
splays playground about which to caper.
Daily, at first moon's signal,
water rushes in, at times in torrent, by others, caress.
Each day's forces create their own patterns,
in deference to this fluid and complex dance.
Then, at second moon's signal,
water retreats, as sand becomes calm and nestled,
spiriting away particles to mix for return,
whilst lingering dampness absorbs.
How would water know complexity without sand's presence?
The contrast of murkiness and clarity?
How would sand refine and nourish life
without the movement of water?
And of the stone...
What would the water flow around and over?
What sensation would exist,
to define the water's dexterous nature against its solid lover?
And the stone, without water,
would never know smooth form,
nor polished finish, born of time and persistence,
nor wet reli
Life of mist / Viata din ceataEnglish:
I see the life of mist
its silentious murmur
the breath that dances
in illuminated patches
The corner of urban disconnection
It's a bird's flight
Within the life of mist
That surrounds us
Here, we are everywhere,
We sway in the mist
We are a universe,
With suns that dance
With us, fireflies,
Hyperactivity in the bones
Because we see
The life of mist
Vad viata din ceata
Suflarea ce danseaza
In bucati de lumina
Coltul deconectarii urbane
E zbor de pasari,
Transa ce mangaie
In viata cetii
Ce ne invaluie
Aici, suntem peste tot,
Ne leganam in ceata
Suntem un univers
Cu sori ce danseaza
Cu noi, licurici,
Hiperactivitate in oase
Pentru ca vedem
Viata din ceata
Paper CranesTo take to the stars
On weightless wings of gilded trees
That never fail
And never cease;
A rapid continuum of beauty,
Dusk’s rays diffusing through the firmament
Bringing cerulean licked midnight greys on crest.
Twinkling eyes to light their predestined path
Blinking only when a cloud passes by.
They shiver and twitch…
The metal hands of tinkerous man
Wrapped lovingly around their fragility.
The room is seeping with anticipation
When placed one by one on the sill.
They shiver and twitch…
Wings bend on delicate creases
Testing limitations with quick mischievous flaps
The moon casts her spell on the windowsill
Luring in the essence
Illuminating the thousand works of art
Before they rise into the expectant night
To take to the stars
There May Be Hope for Us Yet.Through candle lights and the sound of strings
I see the world evolve in all of its glories,
It remains complex and clean, pristine
It shines through ages of metal, and the mountains stand tall
Rivers of golden light
They chuckle and cluck, as the soft stones that slumber underneath
tickle their toes
The sand between my fingers
Ashes of civilizations long past
They still war with hatred as ancient as the sky
Tides of battle become sand, in time.
All of that is long gone, it seems
For humanity has taken its last steps among the soil
Mothers of sand, Fathers of ash, and Children of the dust
They all disappear in a moment
A twinkle of a distant star
An everlasting spectacular glow upon all the lands
And, to think, nature can resume...
There may be Hope for us yet.
below the treelinein mountain chill, immobile
beneath scattered night-blown clouds -
i see hundreds of evergreen trees
like attentive dark arrows, aiming
straining toward a full moon
they appear unified in readiness -
perhaps to pursue a place
less despoiled by... Us?
llp - dA - dec2014
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