Tuesday, September 26, 2006


My blood is cathedral
life songs behind each red window
their tympani basic, reassuring
even when I sleep among my melodies
and the troubled themes of dreams
rise contrapuntal to my maturing.

Blood is my sea-salt tide
perfect rhythm perfected for the moment
whether under soft foot, scented
when a goddess sings of the moon
or flaming stone and thunder
each time a new hell is invented.

My blood is historic
its essences descended intricately
in the quiet of seconds sublime
sequestered in patterns anciently conceived.
Preserved still in my written presence
it loudly speaks in the beat of my time.

Blood is my passion's flower
blushing in its youthful bloom.
Soft-petalled it magnifies my flow
like skalds of old in courtly halls
when words were thieves by the fire light
and honours things only kings bestow.

Blood is lullaby
primal song on my first dozing
ancestral imprint that guides my light.
Yet while I pour my life's sweet effort
into an overburdened world
it touches every word I write.

(Gone To Gossamer)


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Well, no one can say you don't look like a poet. Good photo.

3:06 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

i had to come here just to see your face ... i am starting to forget what you look like! laughing ... we really need to get some more poems up here.

10:22 PM  

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