You bring out the blue in me.
Your soft, wavy body,
your endlessly forgiving eyes,
your gentle hands which shape the wind.

You fill my temple with
nothing but devout prayers
and muted thoughts
which drown out everything else.

You bring out the red in me.
The intense infatuation in me.
The outbursts of sinful anger
which seek to punish,
and only punish.

You feed my soul,
throwing all of my hardened sorrow
away from the inner sanctum of my heart,
softening it.

My dear, you bring out so much.
Please, do not be silent.


red behind a concrete door

the roses blow across the path
suddenly, yet openly
as if to say
world, I receive you

their concrete curtains
behind             every wall
cannot stand proud around mine
for the wandering, azure seas
have eroded away the petals

this tree I can knock on
this tree I can sing with
this tree I must bud on

my rose blossoms

Yet, I cannot feel the warmth?


Tonight this verse fades
into the starving sorrow
which creeps into my mourning soul
that catches the next breath
as if it were the last.

Tonight the autumn greets me,
knocking at my window,
the wind beckoning me to forget.

Forgetting is too much.

Perhaps I met her,
perhaps she met me too.
But parting glances ripped the petals
which drove our roses together.

Maybe her only seed
took root in another mountain.

Tonight this verse fades
into the starving sorrow
which, like I, seeks another end.

Were it Not for Her

Were it not for her love,
my stars would fade into the distance,
carrying all unbearable sweetness
from the pleading spirit of my heart.

Were it not for her tenderness,
the tide would thrash upon my ragged body,
hurling me into the jagged rocks at the edge of the shore.

Were it not for her liveliness,
the autumn would drift away,
the mornings, afternoons, nights,
would pass by like days, weeks, months.

Ah my dear, ah my love.

She has set ablaze the forest
which surrounds my very being.


December winters shake the roof.
In the already darkened night, my weary grandfather
grabs his cold porridge
and gazes into the bowl, into the echoes of his life.
And with the child he shares and mourns
his free mountains which once stood.

The child always saw where the light stood
among the rough memories, which still trembled like the roof.
And so he understood the mourning
which overtook my grandfather
and malnourished his life
like the cold, aging porridge.

To them, every meal was porridge.
But to him every memory was one on which to stand,
except that which chained them was their very existence, their life.
On top of every mountain was a roof.
Inside of every house was the child and my grandfather,
looking at the broken ladder to the heavens, mourning.

On that night they could not prevent their gluttonous mourning
from consuming the flat, broken pieces of porridge
which were held tightly by the forgetful waters of my grandfather
and formed by the new memories on which the child stood.
But the shaking continued on the roof,
which protected both old and new life.

The child dreamed of a renewed life
for my grandfather, one where heaven’s light dispelled the mourning,
where the trembling would stop on the roof,
where there would be no more broken porridge,
where endlessly tall would their mountains stand.
And on this night, his devotion wandered to my grandfather.

Then he sat smiling, my grandfather.
For now the moonlight caressed his frail life
and shone on the peaks of the mountains on which he stood
and produced the soft sobbing, blanketed the sweet mourning,
illuminated the path through the empty bowl of porridge
and ceasing the storm which shook the roof.

By the piety of the child, no more was the roof.
No more was the porridge.
From that moment until the crack of dawn, only sorrow would mourn.