Thursday, February 28, 2013

The Sun has changed the color of the field

The Sun has changed the color of the field
from purple to a rich orange. The valley
of her back is curving, her hands shield
her eyes from the sharp light. O her belly
is softer than a cloud or a green pasture!
It is softer than the light of a distant
painting from another era. The gestures
of an artist—I was in love the instant
I heard her sing. I had an unclear picture
of her posture when I was not the man
I am today: the curving skin, the moisture
on her lips, the dancing form of a woman
with delicate lines. The light has moved
across the earth revealing our true love.

I make music to praise her and to seal

I make music to praise her and to seal
our love within a song that will proclaim
her beauty endlessly. Nothing can conceal
the brilliance she encompasses. I aim
to play skillfully, to revere and to save
the images she grants me: how she helps
me shout for joy! O how the birds gave
their simple songs to the air, how the pulp
of fruit was gathered! I have only faith—
no knowledge and no reason—in her shape
and its mysterious dance. I make love with
her in the shade and color of the landscape
that rolls beyond the bayou. In a psalm
I praise her breast and open up my palms.

Her fingers move the veil over the landscape

Her fingers move the veil over the landscape
of her body mysteriously while the calm
heavens illumine the birds. The words escape
my comprehension, I open both of my palms
and grasp for her sweet flesh. The Sunshine
proclaims her saving acts in several psalms
and lost old books. The dark red of the wine
pours into undulating clouds and my heart
does not withhold love. The grains of a fine
sand slip through my fingers, she is the art
that I do not conceal. The fabric drapes
itself over her curves, her legs move apart
as I enter her. The wet skin of the grape
reflects her eye's incomprehensible shapes.

Monday, February 25, 2013

The lines of your dance have mystified poets

The lines of your dance have mystified poets,
philosophers, storytellers and theologians
beyond our histories. I believe in the fiction
of your movement, the choreography of lines
and air that moves in lungs. The pure pearls
hang in a straight line, loosely your arm bends
above your head receiving the Sun. I am
a Moon reflecting your light—the round legs
you pierce the water with, the depth of eyes
that hold my gaze, the toes majestically
balancing your weight. I would have no man
know it: but you could not be hid. I sing
the lines of your dance and the mysteries
apparent to all men, though thinly veiled.

When I consider how my light is spent

After Milton's 'On His Blindness'

When I consider how my light is spent
in various compositions, how the wide
berth of your hips possesses me, I hide
my face behind a cloud. The Sunlight bent

between the branches is an ever-present
reminder of your glory. On the sides
of the bayou I have sat, you are the guide
that leads me to paradise. I have sent

a song out of my mouth as if I need
to publish your beauty. The verse that best
may bear your power is unfound, your state

is queenly. I am the lover that speeds
to your majestic pastures, there to rest
and meditate while for your love I wait.

The lines of your dance are moving to form

The lines of your dance are moving to form
a script on the horizon—the subtle line
of pearls above your head, your stretched arms
so delicately oriented. Along your spine
I've counted out the rhythms of a dance
of lights in the broad heavens. I should tell
no man: your breath and eyes, this great trance
I'm overcome by—the way the stars all fell
as the Sun rose, the way there is no end
to the ocean or the sky. You've opened wide
your arms to receive colored light that bends
around the clouds and trees. I hold your side
and trace its lines, I feel the plain warmth
of your love moving within a simple form.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

I hid my face from you, resplendent gem

I hid my face from you, resplendent gem,
for a moment. The layers of moist fog
rolled over the waters and about the stems
of irises. The trees and grasses beg
the Sun for mercy, the flowers array
themselves in rows like stars. I reflect
on your dazzling beauty, music is played
by the wind in the branches while I collect
the air in my lungs to sing. The gray fog
rolled over the cows as the tempest thrust
itself upon you. I will lay your legs
on pleasant stones, resplendent gem, I must
establish you in righteousness. The weight
of clouds reveals you in the colored light.

The limit of her skin reflects a ray

The limit of her skin reflects a ray
of Sunlight. She is the unsearchable gem,
the mystifying library. The long stems
of flowers leap from the marsh and pray

to the light revolving about them. The fray
of her veil betrays perfection, the seams
of her restored clothing. I forget the poem
that apprehends her, behind the low gray

clouds she hides. I have found her, I must
sing this remembrance forever. The rugs
are dyed in complements and I have thrust

myself into her like the extending fig
tree enters the blue sky. The quiet trust
disclosed the obscure beauty of her legs.

The singing birds and the quiet array

The singing birds and the quiet array
of petals on the flowers, the gray fog
obscures canals and bayous. Her soft legs
move among the water as the waves play

along imperfect shores. She is a ray
of brilliant light, the Sun that I have begged
for forgiveness. The songs of bugs and frogs
dance in my ears, I can see how she lays

across the tapestries, the light reflects
her calves and heels, how she distributes weight
and moves within the space. She is my object

of meditation, the mystery that's caught
my gaze finally. My ears and eyes collect
her figures moving in the morning light.