Symphony For A Boy At Dawn


Light is drawn over paper sky
I've been on Ēōs' path before
The way that burns the wings of distraction
Soft arms of pine trees take hold of me
The river flows steady through peaks
Over mud and sand
Cold it hides the weapons
Of the remaining race
The simple birds of all seasons
Come and go as please
Preening on rocks in grey light
Waking with no surprise nor wonder
Two forgotten horses
Now wild with ragged manes
Wander through the shadows of the trees
Eyes bright and never sleepy
Ēōs once again opens her gate
And plants the daily rose
I walk down her dewy path
Thinking of the city I call home

Comments

  1. Pier Roberto GiannelliAugust 18, 2015 at 6:15 PM

    I like the intimacy.... The poem reminds me of the Buddhist-influenced poems of mid-20th-century America.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

THE RIDDLE, THE FLAW, AND THE PUNISHMENT

Image
If I am beautiful am I real? Like the boys on the 24th floor They are beautiful I don't know how to reach them I don't know how they got there Are they real? Are they the small book of poems Left beneath Sebastian's tree A page for each face A sonnet for each precious, beautiful, life of the boys on the 24th floor Each pulling at the others clothes baring chests and thighs some smooth like stone Some coarse with hair like velvet If I am beautiful Do I exist Do these boys on the 24th floor exist? Are they merely the temperature, the weather? The blush across my cheeks? How do I find this hidden floor? Where the bed is a sacred alter Holding those Beautiful fellows Are the words of the bible A book for each? Or merely strains of Liliaceae Showing their holy strength in the force of their stalk and colour They are the beautiful Those boys on the 24th We artist and poets we search for ever And what of us? Are we not beautiful? Are we not real? Why is it we never find the 24th...
Read more

The Moon is a Transvestite

The Moon is the greatest of Transvestites She holds the bruises of school bullies Her makeup is better than any lady you will meet Better than my bullish sister Better than the painted prostitutes of media Better than the young men of music The Moon she gets up on stage once a month Puts on her sequinned show Parading and dancing and showing us the theatre or romance and space And then she will slowly draw her blinds Closes her door Allows herself to rest Sitting on her favourite lounge Wearing her favourite satin gown Watching reruns of an old detective show I love The Moon
Read more

An Ode To Pain

Image
You just drink to get drunk to dance And you just dance to have a brief taste of myth You don't shave sometimes to feel criminal And when you do you feel exceptionally last century The music you listen to was written by a man with woolly hair His cock was large and his genius was broad He found he could run fast when the rock fences were falling As you found were decidedly slow But the punches and the kicks felt alright Something to write to Frederico about An ode to pain perhaps, an ode to Sadism And where will the return address be? What land, city, bridge? Are you to dwell in the orchard all your life Pissing against the same trees as the other artists? Sleeping on top of the shadows, trying to slow the light Did you ever hear the myth of the Frenchman and the sailor? The Sailor fucked the Frenchman upon a ship that was carrying peaches From America to the port of Lamoux The more they fucked the more peaches were destroyed Until by the time they were hit b...
Read more