For Marquez, Neruda, Silko

I have seen the pool
Of your Melancholy
And sought to drown there,
But my own pulled me back
Gasping, I sought words
Of my own
And yours wandered by
For your Loneliness
Has seeped into my breath
And gives mine company
On weary afternoons

How it is to Walk

Often, I collect bits of myself
Like a tired hag her much-worn skirt
And then a flash of the wide, wide way
That walks to no end, but a search.

Colours pass me, I drink a bit of them
Thirst compels me to this false wine
And swaying, I curse this self
Which seeks ectasy
Where there is none

And so walking, and often blind
I have scattered my shadow,
By the sun and the stream
My relflection calls to me
And I say,
One day
I will be there
All of me

Night and the Flower

Often in blankness
The Night stares
And sees the black flower bloom
Gore-veined
Drunk on the ink
Of Its skies
The Night mourns
Its slow seep
For the bud must grow
And Night must cry
Tears to keep it alive.

I am the
Tainted Night
Flower of darkness.
Hued too early in years,
Imbued with a melancholy
That no word or song or love
Will hold nor heal
We weep a lost dream
And live
On a reed pipe’s tune
That tells our tale
How

‘A night and a flower
Bloomed long ago…’

That Alley

In the dark alleyway
Mad dogs yelp their bitter pain
White are the walls that seal the ends
And emptiness charts
Ground and sky.

Fantasies of the night
Melt with the day
While somewhere caged resounds
That alleyway...