passionate all night
lingering traces of love ~
sunshine in the soul
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
moonlight threads through
whispering pines~
a single moth traces
the shape of silence,
becoming the night
What trace
Of fish madness
Remained
When trout
Leaped
And
Frothed
The water,
Mayflies
Brushed away
In silence.
Ill fate I call, luck lingering on chance,
Others may call it law of seeds and sprouts,
And yet others, destiny's dappled dance,
A thing when duly happens what use doubts?
And karma clings to catch up with the life
To dish out platefuls of pickled fortune,
Or life of frustration, of sour fruits rife,
Dark rainy clouds or sunshine of mid June.
Life has to learn to live with Providence,
Which, like a river flows as is meant to—
To meet ocean— how making little sense,
For, destiny leaves blueprint nor a clue.
Life traces no straight line in curvy space,
Rejoice still, no atom seems out of place.
____________________________
Sonnet | 05.11.2011 | destiny, life, luck, philosophy
Note: If something happens, how and why are matters of philosophical debate. But something happens, we see it, where are the doubts? Remember, even chaos has at its core some method in madness. One has to live in a curvy-linear world of no straight lines.
Don't call it fever.
Listen
it was a phrase
crystallized in time,
suspended in the air
between us.
Feel how flesh cannot lie
when language
inscribes itself in blood
in a tongue
we never learned to speak.
blinkered by formal training
counting bright abacus beads of syllables
mindful not to step on cracks—
rhythm is everything
the audience c h e e r s !!!
the runner-up jeers—
maybe next time the nexus of …
the bows and brasses displayed
along with my bruises
an abacus of pearls
c.a.s.t
on
w a t e r
that drowns out the h-o-o-f-b-e-a-t-s of
a P O U N D I N G heart
a trace of desire
slated at the font
of knowledge
concurrent with my past
laurels
I bow to your discerning palate—
you clap for
REPETITION
repetition
r e p e t i t i o n
but I do not rest
unlike Keats
my NAME
is not
writ in
w a t e r …
My passion is to find obscure places,
shops down alleys with old traces;
artisan, bookstore or second hand,
I can spend hours exploring . . .
For me this is calming and never boring,
and lovely when I find a "thing" grand.
The waves gently caress my feet, leaving traces of sand as they retreat,
A weight presses on my heart, leaving me still, bound to memories,
For I still see you beside me, as if you never left this place,
The sunset by the waves reflects the tremor in my heart, reminding me of you,
Here, buried in the sand, lie our endless conversations, echoing,
The shells beneath my feet call to me, reminding me of days gone by,
A gentle breeze flutters my hair, whispering of the days when we were us,
Among these familiar stones, our laughter still echoes, asking for another chance,
The quiet trees offer me a glance full of understanding and old memories,
An overwhelming desire to hold your hands and our fingers together,
The pull to rest my head close to your heart, on your warm chest,
What if we could jump into these waves and disappear somewhere?
Far from the chaos of the world, for you are my entire shore, all I desire.
Soupers often engage in emotional ways.
There can be depth in what two might exchange.
When someone leaves our shared Soup domain,
their diminished light is a missed, valued sight.
Some remarks feel like word-shaped embraces
and time together often leaves valued traces.
Is is not odd, just plain strange, as well as an ache
that Soup relationships are both close and remote?
I have missed your small-boxed faces,
your writes and presence on my pages.
I wonder if other soup pals also ponder
the restrictions our bonds form under.
I recall the joys of our hellos and ‘getting to knows’
But ‘byes and why-gone words’ are silent blows.
It must be a new age emotional feeling
the internet brought into being
so people everywhere could connect.
Dog-gone-it, doesn’t connect
sound inept?
Written: December 02, 2024
____________________________
At dawn cradle,
Dew blankets the earth,
whispered secrets swirl among stately elms,
a chorus of cheerful waxwings
sings beneath the blush of lavender skies.
Willows sway, swirls of grace,
twilight traces with ruby tones.
The iris dances,
emerging from lush shadows,
each petal a whisper of dreams.
Aureolin moments linger,
gold glistening in the mist,
as rustles paint the air,
the viol of night lilts softly,
celestial orbs clad cosmic clashes.
We walk through opal pathways,
where the heart shares its stories,
and neon memories cling,
as lilacs in a gentle breeze—
O, the beauty in being lost.
Living in the shadow
of a man now gone
Darkness my betrayal
— shades of future past
(Dreamsleep: October, 2024)
"San Francisco hospital maternity ward the night after advent of my firstborn '76, reasoned work o’er Uni," ... by The Poet.
teen held wee life neath lamp light ~ what you doing ~ it’s the drugs dear good night
She hated that vacuum.
She would run around and try to trip me.
This chore used to take forever and ever…
Now it’s done.
All those traces of fur are gone.
But we had to.
Or else the house would be covered in dust.
But we had to.
She hated that vacuum.
Sorry, but we had to.
A poet's journey
Is both inward and outward.
The poems he records
Along the way
Are the traces he leaves behind,
The tracks he lays down,
For him to see where he's been
And for others to follow.
Places
Open spaces
Always changing faces
Regions with different races
Traces
Sub Categories
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