Nocturnal Laments

you must sleep
you must dream
your dreaming must dream me
or I couldn't dream you
into my dream
breathing - in and out
motionless under the northern stars
from the navel's center of time
released to come to me
in sleep
you must dream
your dreaming
must dream me
or I can't dream you...

My Four Seasons

Claude Monet
"The Road to Giverny In Winter"


The Skies are ceaselessly blue, and the nights have a tantalizing breeze,
The masses harvest the sun’s light, everywhere; over and under the seas.
Fruits they’ve craved are now ripe; from them some folks you cannot sever,
Ice is sloshed onto the juices, making them taste better than ever.

Summer is here they shout. Well, I beg to differ.

My summer is miles away. Yes, my summer is not quite yet here.
Can summer rain trickle down my face without her tears?
Summer is miles away.

The trees seem to slowly undress; the flowers are already out of sight.
The night is longer now –and, to many people’s delight.
Chestnuts are baked; the kettles whistle once the waters boil,
The tea is a must; with it, for some reason, anything ceases to roil.

Autumn is here they say. Well, I surely don’t think so.

My autumn is miles away. Yes, my autumn is not here, I swear.
Is the night dark enough for slumber without the presence of her hair?
Autumn is miles away.

The hills are painted hues of green; the streams oscillate between blues,
The air is sprayed with lavender; regal lilies allow some to calmly muse.
During the dawn the mist is warm; slowly ascends like a theatre’s curtains,
Birds of bliss through it they swim, bathing their bodies in the vapor fountains.

Spring is here they cry. Well, of that I’m not so certain.

My spring is miles away. Yes, my spring did not yet swing by.
How can I gaze at the spring moon if I’m missing her eyes?
Spring is miles away.

Brick layered roads smothered with water give off a familiar insipid smell,
How much time (which now seems endless) since it rained one can surely tell.
The Salep recaptures its crown and becomes the drink of the season,
A cup or two should certainly do –otherwise a beacon for treason!

Winter is here they sight. Well, the odds are weakened.

My winter is miles away. Yes, my winter did not yet settle in.
How can I stroke angelic white snow while I’m lacking her skin?
Winter is miles away.

I know

Margie Resto-Smith;
"Eva", 16X20, Pastel on Masonite




As you wet your lips, they slither on your teeth
Slowly they shut, like a resting dove’s eye.
When you slept, I once saw tears bounce off your ripe cheek
Like morning dew, grudgingly dropping off a green leaf.

How beautiful you are, I know.

Wondering, you run your hands down your hair
Strands of black satin, you fingers softly fall off the edge.
When you smile, oh when you smile
Your full, dark eyes remain unchanged; virginally innocent.

How beautiful you are, I know.

When you speak, simply you are not speaking
Descanting you are, pure & profound thoughts.
When you dance, oh when you dance
Like a rose petal, rippling to a soft wind.

How beautiful you are, I know.

Dying only for you, I picture every night
Puts me to sleep, a wishful thought like that.
No man is worthy of you.
Still, I should confess: I love you.

How much you love me, that I only know.

Courage

"Lion", Louis Lassalle,
18X24, Oil


Not to fight
Not to always be right
To sometimes cry
Never to oblige

Not to shout
Not to expose
To think how you're maybe being too cold

To sometimes be silent.

To apologize
To lose some pride
To be content…
She is your damn bride

Being a man.
Not being you.

Masked Love

"Slave of love & light of my eyes";
Etienne Dinet, Oil, 1904


“Love is an angel, disguised as lust” – not exactly.

Serving the flesh, releasing the men at sea
Holy unity, for years, you will lack.
Aroma, persona, hourglass, and face
What’s left is intellect to seal the chase.

Bring your spirit, true it must be
Lay it down and steer it to her.
Expose your fears, share the laughs
Still, you are nothing but a walking staff.

Confess your love, digress not, and make it clear
Spill your spirit, smile, and pass it through her eyes.
Wait you must, for a sacred trust has been broken.
Staunch is all you’ll ever be, same words never to be spoken.

Pain is predictable, but self pity --neglect
Lust will forever simmer, momentarily you seem to forget.
Holy unity, one thinks, you still lack
Better now than tomorrow, trust in that.