Poem
The poem had white-washed walls,
and long, stately coconut leaves.
On the poem's head were bright, red
roof-tiles standing silently in the rain.
The poem's walls were made of stone
and its thick pillars dreamt.
You met me there, by its pillars,
once long ago...
Words held out their hands to the rain.
Inside other thoughts hummed and slept.
Then the poem drowned out like water
and was left to stand crumpled in the rain.
It could still be standing there...
Round the corner as you turn
You might come upon it
Someday face-to-face
To live in it one more time
and find yourself again.
Poem
At the window with the sunlight
and the shadows flashing past.
And at night, the blue wind rising.
Every hour keeps its rendezvous
on the page.
In deep afternoon,
with the cackle and the dead paint
and the air thickening, when all
soon becomes a blur; then sometimes
those evenings visit,
compressed with its pleasures.
When you remember where
you sat on the grass
and you can feel it...or almost
How the trees stayed hushed
and the cars on the road
dead for a thousand years.
Then in the deep and dark evening
with the rain pouring down,
you woke up
and embraced the moonlight.
Poem
The tall buildings stood like
smoke in the night.
You thought of other things.
In another time, another place...
Then the wind brings it with her
You turn to see the room
The music blaring through the speakers.
Laughter heard that woke you up
with a hand on your face.
Then you remember the children
How they held hands
and walked through the grass.
The little one who guided your steps
And took you to the water
Where you saw the moon floating...
The angel that showed you the way
took you home where you saw
the light hovering over the bones.
