romanticism

hi how are you you ask
i love loudly and often
you would want to know that
for example i am always in love
tempestuous inside
i see a beautiful moment
and my words are choked
by travel my heart makes
up my throat
i try to lecture
my students sit wondering
at such a strange man
a man with a splinter
in the mind of his foot
a foot that is an expression
an expression that wants to tell you
how beautiful something just was
an expression that limps
stumbles
falters
but tells a story
louder than words
it cannot stand on

the beethoven of donna

fill me with that face
dark and beautiful as
intimate words
promise me
you will linger on my lips
lost for a moment
and that
open or closed
my eyes will see
that secret world
only we know of
surround my ears
with the silky ocean
of your whisper
in the pendulous light of
a moonlight sonata
for a man
gone deaf on the world

longing

i dont believe it is the effort of walking

that makes me want to fly

sweating on some

hot dusty road

nothing comes free

and sometimes walking

is my effort of choice

sometimes legs just need stretching

its a cold cruel world

when you cant make choices

im not talking about that

about dodging a reckless car

or hanging onto the mast

after a shipwreck

im talking about who will you find

where you are looking

cause where is surprisingly specific

where determines wholl be there

i mean those of the earth

are found in the city of the road

they roll beside me

trapped in traffic

creatures of the sidewalk

they read books

trying to set their minds loose

upstairs in the library

are anchored to their chairs

littering classrooms with questions

until bells set them free

still to linger outside doorways

grouped by gravity

and on to other questions

but its you who live in the city of the sky

and i want to see you

that makes me want to fly

it is my longing that needs to soar

bereft

she stumbles across the dance floor of the moon
having failed to hear the music
she cannot soar and sway
in the sparkle of starlight
she looks for pieces of broken glass
her beast is blind and cannot find them
even though they pain her ancient shuffle
her mind cannot paint a picture
nor her ear transcend
the clank of fork and spoon
nor the hungry growl of her beast
for whom she so urgently
cuts her bread
blindly leaving huge gashes
glaring open
in the tablecloth of the night

she carries cold discomfort
which no blanket can warm
and no pillow can make rest easy

sated – her sleep is profound
as the death she fears
but not easy
there is no waltz
over smooth marble
to glide the night away