There are so many things to say.

In the harsh light of some mornings, when my thoughts are still in a nocturne, there are so many things I know to say.
I will explain, but they are hidden.
I will explain, but they are echoes of memory no longer remembered.
They are coloured in moonlight, tucked away in some thousand parallel dreams.
I will explain.
They are on a mountain beneath the shadow of a pine tree.
They are the python’s suffering, the running river’s song.
They are in the eyes of a wild deer, ambushed, afraid.
I will explain.
They speak in the rain, ever so quietly, so gently, but nobody hears.
They are bitter and bleak to the lonesome wayfarer accompanying the wind.
They are littered on an old path denuned by time of its sacred distinction.
I will explain.
They are kismet when the trees shrivel and weep.
They are behind the moon, east of the gate.
They are so many wordless things to say.


The dishevelled hour of 1800


When the veneer of propriety barely hangs for most and some not at all
and eyes avoid eyes in the abysmal desolation as the last fragments of light filter through the trees
We are all simply passing through this resented place
simply teetering on the precipice of bad conversation
“where did you come from?”
“where are you going?”
and you–enshrouded in a mellifluous saxophone solo or something
dreaming distantly
Do you need to break
over the phone
in an email
in a letter
a long harboured confession
simply languishing in the hour?

This Stranger

Spring wafts in the wind like a mournful sigh in the trees
when the night is new.
Crepuscular wantings flood the caliginous hour
and the hour stretches into many eternal nights of golden spring, blackened with waiting.
I begin to wonder about the sayings of his limpid eyes,
and like sonorous thunder in the dead of night, the cool virescent spring of his gaze echoes of the vast beginnings of an end.
Their gentle green embrace, so strange,
cuts through my breath.
And the insipidity that accompanies his leave, this stranger.
How many nights has it been?
Maundering from faraway thought to faraway thought, laden with being.

Walking the winding path


Forget it all,
What has been and what can be,
What is yet to become of thee,
Fade with the dwindling light of the afternoon
Into the veracity of this present gloom.
Forget and disappear into the essence,
Into the ephemerality shrouded in silence,
One with death creeping in the hibernal shade, receding into days of yesterday.
Leave behind the hypotheses and incertitudes
Beleaguered in the dance of fate and essay,
And descend down the endless path of present tense and forget
The tawdry ornaments of space and time,
As starlings flit in the rutilant sublime
To the silent melody of protracted decay.

Awake in the ennui

In the springtide gleam of reveries, I am adrift,
my faithful hankerings full of sleep, sepulchred in the void of dreamless dreams
Sheltered in the golden silence
of a pair of eyes―infinite with longing.
Their enkindled gaze—ardent like the moon, swallows time itself.

The somnolent relics of those prevernal afternoons sown into the night,
gently blossom into fragrant dreams that come and go,
tiredly moving with the moon,
like wreaths of burning amber fumes,
redolent of a rain many years ago,
melting away into the past too soon.

A dusky eye, senescent with the ancient look of sempiternal longing, regards me in the mirror.

 “What do you want from me?” It asks.

Night recedes into the opaline haze of dawn,
and I am awake still,
my faithful hankerings full of sleep,

    I don’t know what I say

as the waning moon turns away its lambent face from mine.