Short Clefts Poems

My dove in rock clefts
Secret places of the stairs.
Let me hear thy voice....

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love slept
as
rainbows wept
weeping willows
pillows tear depths
feathering clefts
landing softly
love slept
?...

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Autumn.
The morn is wresting itself
between ill
leaves, which that summer
brought along.
The sky stayed
in clefts.
The yellow lamps
among dark trees.
It’s autumn.
Slowly, downwards
after the pure rain –
sheltered....

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lovers of night
strangers
lovers of music and song
lovers of night
nightstrummers
strummed to the grooves of the song
lovers of woman
speak like singer
they say what right and wrong
lovers of the night
come together
in concerts
to appreciate the songs...

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sitting here
at the keyboard,
lettered blue notes
flow with rhythmic melodies
inking bars of varied clefts
of poetic pitch
rising from
B flat decrescendos 
to C sharp crescendos—
peaking trilling lights of truth
from a major second:
gifted by the most high first...

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The wind blows fiercely to empower the fire in the well of life, 

Quickly it is drowned by the sweetness of the sound that can't be felt or found, 

The stillness burns quite like ice, and clefts the mind as nice as knife, 

Time heals the harm, and the Lost Wind blows bold anew....

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who is this red haired green eyed witch
invading all my dreams
to set my inner self a twitch 
is nothing as it seems
as freckles rush to crowd in clefts
I know of truer lips I’ve kissed
and dare not touch else be bereft
whence came this wench
to cause this wrench
I swear my needs have been mistook
they sent me Lady Look...

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them
them
them
those man hands clung from me
beat me choke me touch me
you could never touch me
oh
how he brushed me
dont love me like that
pull an other trick
from your hat
climbing from me
oh tortuous shell
drippiing my depths
from the clefts
of hell
what crevice what crack
gand canyons swallow me back
a void avoid avoiding the noise
get me loves hammer
shall we nail your
grammer
bleeding
me
a
pip
wind can scan
them man hands
?...

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*** (I Wonder)

I wonder what present, what future
to predict to you, me
to you, with hands of leaves,
with thoughts, lost into the torn
canvas of someone else’s 
words,
with a gait of a wave…
A silence buries the hours
and the alders remain
candles. 
Yes, the homes are 
never enough.
And there’s none whom 
to pray to among the dry
flowers speechless
but unique. 
And may the wind 
spin you
through clefts of granite. 
With all my tenderness –
into fall of the leaves....

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