Tag: Poetry

Must I Un-Wish?

The son of lands, and lands amazed,
That sheer a composition, in the fair hands,
Of Mendelssohn that grown from the stems,
And tendrils, furtive maelstrom in sound,
And bearing without a formal syntax

Natural.

My dear! Enwrapped around,
Senses displayed—I had thought the reality,
The drought and rings of nymphs,
And I, and I so foolishly pestered,
Thatched by those dead, those pranced,
At the sight of the endless bloom,
And I have remained in my quiet room.

Thank You.

I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not),
All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish,
Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set,
As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down,
Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call.
That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture,
That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day

Once Born.

There the death of the red, there the death of the wind,
And here is a, nonetheless, word spoken,
By the life it feels and here is life.

December.

Winter deceived once again, child, there is no snow,
That pokerish linen interlaces rocks and stardust;
May it bring the recherché in the form of an old voice, an old friend.