The young drawing the old

These roots that grab my arm, your plant;

this plan devised in form of a vase by that mind behind your eye!…

 

This early sunrise, the sunny window to your soul, clearing the overcast eyebrow;

this naked bronze of mine!…

 

These cold waters unabridged, that my feet will not touch;

this continent where I sit, my shadow of your light!…

 

This spinal curve sustaining my thoughts, my inclination;

this weak wind, your breath, that keeps my hair alive!…

 

It must be a history of old I see over the horizon; on the horizon line.

 

 

 

 

Image by Natalia Molina

 

Off and On

This is dedicated to Natalia Molina, for our talk was a muse.

Short introduction:
The inspiration comes from a forgotten Romanian author, and she writes something like this, "I've nothing to complain about my past relationships, except that they were a drawback to my creativity."


* * *

It was too late for an embrace and yet he gave it true
And told the story of creation and why their bond
Of which he was fond should discontinúe

“When I’m by myself and my days go wrong
The words that flow are more of light
And my vowels become a song

But when you fondle my night
Long syllables run dry
Oh without a fight”

Full of reason he departed waving his hand goodbye
His errand thus beginning while releasing one last sigh

For how long could he hide?

He bent and twisted and created blooming verses new
Trespassing passes that anyone else already knew

He hid well for a year or two

Old ghastly voices soon returned to haunt
His conscience white and he had to write
To his love a new excuse an extra stunt

“When I’m by myself and my day's a song
The words that flow turn into night
And my vowels sound all wrong

But when you kindle my light
Long kisses run dry
Oh with our fight”

* * *