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Enmeshed

Enmeshed in thoughts of black and gold
of amber and of careful skill,
and drawn towards these almond pools
whose sparkles drain my will

Enmeshed and tangled into strength
which carries weakness in it too,
caught up in thoughts uncertain of
the whereabouts of (always!) you

Outside my window stands a tree
with leaves unfolded, clad in green,
and on my window sill is set
an ashtray, cigarette butts within

But in my head I only see
those smiles, those tears, those memories
who with your disappearance ought,
yes ought!, but never quite do, cease

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Golden Leaf

Those golden autumn leaves –
I think of you –
your life a leaf of time itself
and sharing hue –

Your golden skin, angular bones –
a withered leaf –
the dewdrops on the leafs; your tears
that’s bound to cease

Your eyes that glitter amber-brown –
vitality is here –
development still going on;
there’s beauty there

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You, My Poem

How concentrate when you are here?
It’s difficult for sure.
And when you’ve left, still more
than while you still were here.

How can I write a poem
with an exquisite poem by my side;
what could I say that isn’t tried
about you? My heart’s poem.

How concentrate? I fail, you see,
much rather than write I wish
to study your features, and with a kiss
sign you, my poem: “by Me.”

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Ageing

The changing features of your ageing face,
a 1000-year old oak could have for bark,
that natural, innate and rhythmic grace
that leaves my words of poem in the dark

The life that thrives in your dark, simmering eyes,
the radiance that shines out of your mind,
that flow; continuity of time that lies
beneath the changing forms of our kind

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When You Smile

Those wonderful, curious ridges
and valleys adorning your face
that speak simultaneously to me
of agelessness and bygone age;

Those shadows and highlights; treasures
of wisdom both old and new
contained in your smile and your wrinkles
ceaselessly draw me to you;

What good is simple beauty
that knows very little of time?
No, tempered by time and struggles,
such polished it’s made sublime;

And through your beautiful wisdom,
which smiles bring to your face,
I sense an ocean of vital strength
transgressing the passage of time, and age.

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Who Are You?

you stirred the water of my soul,
a new beginning could you mold –
who are you? I don’t know.

what power could stillwater free,
turn a wasteland into a sanctuary?
what power lies in you that I can’t see?

not see, but feel it’s effects; feel
the tidal force when round you wheel
in circles around me. who are you?

I don’t know, and I don’t care
as long as you are here
I need not to hear named a thing
which cannot really be explained.

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Evening Dew

A trembling tune of blended birdsong
in the wood at nightfall –
the setting sun, the rising mist,
the thoughts of what today’s been done –

Your graceful poise out on the porch
as you observe the fading beams of day –
it must’ve been the evening dew
that stained your cheeks – and then you’d say;

“the world is changing all too fast, and so is I,”
and turned your saddened amber eyes to me –
but I will not believe that tears could be
the substance trickling down the face of you;

the foremost of this world’s now-living men?
It cannot be – it was the evening dew.

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Iconostasis 1.

Your lips and their redness,
their fullness and flavour;
their warmth and their sweetness
that I long to savour.

Your jaw and your cheekbones
in exquisite sharpness,
the hollows they leave in your cheeks
make me breathless.

Your straight, perfect nose
showing proudly between them,
those arches of beauty;
some time I will kiss them.

Your hair, neatly trimmed
with few spots of greyness;
the short ruffles, curl-like,
my hands have caressed.

Your eyebrows that arch up
and frame in your features;
your brow with the wrinkles
of thinkers and dreamers.

And lastly your eyes;
the amber-brown wells
whose dignity shines
on the face where it dwells.

You rarely show feelings
so I do for two –
but any expression
looks stunning on you.

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Iconostasis 2.

The touch of your hand and the sound of your voice –
the smile and the movement of lips and of tongue –
the flicker of eyes and of eyelids, your breath,
the turn of your head and your shoulders, your warmth –

The tightening of sinews, your delicate fingers,
the ironic glimpse in your flicker of smiles –
the picturesque shape of your bones and your features,
the dignified shyness of poise and of gait –

The worries that furrowed your brow and your cheeks,
the wisdom that rests behind smiles, behind tears –
the knowledge you’ve gained, the illusions you’ve lost,
the marks left behind by your loves, hopes and fears –

The distant remoteness you try to preserve,
the closeness you need and the substitutes for it;
leave that in the past, and let’s see for the future
if not my embrace could prove much better fit.

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Interlude

A plane unfolding a cloud is the only
sign of other life we have in sight
while under this, the sky of the earliest
of the early days of Spring’s reluctant light
we tread a path through last year’s
withered stems
and talk about all else than what we want.

And then a silence long and rarely broken
before we see it all again.

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Lee Shores

While I was tossed about by waves
and couldn’t make it home a-shore
I never thought that I should live
to see the daylight anymore

As wave by wave came crashing in
I thought that I should breathe my last
and I prepared myself to face
whatever end earned by my past

I then an unexpected foothold got
when waves diminished and my boat
instead of being tossed about
now suddenly with ease could float

These lee shores I have found and what’s to do
but feeling restful when this way upheld
by gentle currents coming out from you
who withhold storms from being by me felt

I’ve dreamt of waves, and drowning too,
each nightmare followed by the next,
a long succession of them so
at last I thought that I was cursed

But when I sense your hand and voice
I’m sent back instantly to sail
in the smooth waters of your arms,
your breath the only wind to fill my sail

Your chest, your arms my lee shores when afraid,
your eyes, your voice my comfort when alarmed –
the ocean of my mind can do no harm;
when you are here my darker thoughts abate

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The Conch

I used to hear the sea
when holding conch shells to my ear;
I never knew an ear could be
the same shape as a conch
or a heartbeat
mimicking its melody.

I used to miss the sea
when roaming from my home;
but now its melody
resounds to me through you
in pulse and breath and heartbeat.

You, portable new sea
and portable new home.
The currents of your body
sing my private lullaby
while I rest in your lee.

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Firelight

The light of the fire flickers on your skin
alighting your cheeks, your forehead and chin,
unmasking a deeper, hidden hue;
the flame that flares inside of you.

In red and orange and yellow now shine
the skin and the heart within that is mine,
the shadows of deepest, darkest blue
perfects with their contrast the image of you.

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On Drawing K In the Shower

A monumental quality
as such there shouldn’t be
in a thing as transient
as the human body.

And yet there is a sort
of perpetual strength in
the look of your muscles
and sinews tightening.

As if you were a cliff
squaring up to meet the sea;
enduring and majestic
in its rigidity.

Yet as that cliff you are
still vulnerable too –
these years that pass away
are also marking you.

So here I am at work
attempting to preserve
through graphite, yet again,
every sinew, every nerve.

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The Broken Bond

They flicker in the moonlight,
two flames that steady burn –
the tides shifting and changing,
the wind blowing astern –
he’s one of those few people
who shift but ever burn –
and outshines all the others,
but never ever learn –
keep burning, flames, keep burning
the broken bonds out-burn –
what’s lost can’t be retrieved,
so leave it past, outworn –

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Warmth

I miss it – gentle warmth –
caress of souls, of sun and Earth –
a thousand tiny rays and swirls
from you to me and back again –
an endless, wordless, mindless
and thoughtless exchange;
a promise left unspoken
and a word that’s never said
cannot diminish this presence
of the things we had
together –
lingering a while
once you leave me;
your warmth a pleasant memory
as cold envelops me

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Ode From an Artist

My heart cramps up and gasps for breath
confined within my chest
with art as the only outlet
for the feelings by which I’m beset

My stomach twists and turns in fear
when finished I present
a piece of art to hands
whose lack of touch I bear

That lack of touch which bade create
the poem, painting, song
that speaks of how I long
for better outlet than I re-create

Art; substitute for what I need,
a beautiful one indeed
but barren, void and lifeless too –
I’d take your hands instead
if offered them; I’d take them and
I’d lead them everywhere
where words and paint can never reach;
all that I’d with you share!