On crumpled pages a dying memory
By my unmade bed inked poems unsatisfied
a sadistic kookaburra inflicts me with distant stabs of loneliness
recalling gentle whispers camouflaged and unspoken
future visions.
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head
Nor shady cypress tree.
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dew-drops wet;
I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion -
I have shudder’d at it.
I shudder no more.
We feel the intensity. We know the instinct attention that those three letters grab and sadly forget that after the initial hormonal rush we are seeking far more and yearning greater horizons.
Growth comes from bridging ever expanding circles, said Emerson in Essays of Circles. In love, like creativity, takes us across concentric circles in two directions simultaneously.
To me he seems like a god
as he sits facing you and
hears you near as you speak
softly and laugh
For you alone, enchanting beauties,
Queens of my spirit, for your sake
Did I convert to scribal duties
Some golden leisure hours, and make,
To whisperings of garrulous ages,
Once-upon-a-time my faithful task.
When He comes Back
When he comes back
to my armsI’ll make him feel
what nobody ever felt
