September 2015

the you
forever past
spring clouds
buried deep
a death denied
a headstone
only now
hearing the voice
that called my name
distant chant
a lawn mower droning
at a loss
to recreate such a dawn
I bury seeds
blood moon
eclipsed by
another side
and you, son
listening still to the song
in its egg
plumb-dark eyes
where all light is held
in thrall
these words too
my eschatology
of being
dead to words
the silence of darkness
within blue
full grown
in my memory
seeds sown
is this dawn?
egg sacs of light
in my garden
the dark side
of my garden
on waking
words from the dark side 
of the earth
what binds you, moon,
to the light and dark
of passing days?

the nothing I have to say is in my words

out to pasture
I chew over the cud
of becoming
the sound of
messages of condolence
after the tone . . .

on queue words line centre-stage 

eight legged dew
along silken fall lines
spread the light
to be
is the was
of seems
september ends—
native birds piece together
a war of words
barren moon—
unable to conceive 
a being 
greater than oneself
the spring once more
in my step
my neolithic age—
soil-dark fingers

a word
after a word
at war

War and Peace

the other
he has a lean 
and hungry look

how we come to bury
the knives

i think
therefore it is
light at last

a slice each
of crunchy cucumber
on her eyes

alas alack at all
a declension of nouns

the wrinkling skin
of vision

the lingering taste
of a death

the writing
in the tissue fold long

A spontaneous sequence with Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy