Firefly

your beauty
singularly cool and wild-
fresh as a pot of sea-mist paint-
radiates for miles,
a firefly in society's dusky meadow,
bright and high-arcing as a shooting star:
a firefly of the firmament.

Mirror

each poem i write
is a polished silver glass
reflection of you

Crimson-crested Snowbird

standing there,
a traveller frozen in my way
in a crowded Christmas Eve mall,
i was reminded of your incredible beauty-
you leaped out,
amid the cold powdery snow of faces,
a fruit of the season:
a delicate crimson bird,
shaking down the powdery snow
with your glimmering presence.
what a rich contrast!
tropical radiance on cold white snow!
such etherealness.
such delicacy of form
in the stern, barren crowd-
a brilliant crimson flower
blooming out of season,
the first peach fully ripe on its stem,
an adornment, a ruby
reflected from ice crystals
momentarily flourishing
'midst the drifting snow.

Infinite Beauty

infinite beauty, i can well declare,
no other woman could i hold so dear;
but that i love thee, this i do swear,
not now, nor ever, another revere.

enchantress, thy face is carved in my soul
and though mortal eyes can ne'er half receive
the glorious charm thy visage unscrolls,
in eternity's clear eye, i conceive.

my heart is thy captive; thou hold'st me now
in the prison of thy radiant flame;
a bond-servant to love, i humbly bow
brimful pleasure at the sight of thy frame.

each day infinity smiles upon me.
why would i seek other beauty than thee?

Transfiguration

my lover adorns
whatever part of my life
she touches;
whichever way she moves she
transfigures the universe.

if a common person
speaks to me of love,
a shallow
dull-colored puddle appears.

but if she speaks of it,
blue water and reflective hills
appear, for she has been there-
i hear the rustle of leaves
from the forest as she goes through.

Prestidigitation

love is
a magician's hand
where once was:
a red ball,
a silver dollar,
the eight of clubs,
a white dove
so confused
by its release,
that it flew
toward the audience
only to appear
on your outstretched finger.

Drunk Writing

everything
that is poetic has
f
a
l
l
e
n
from me like leprous limbs.
i can write no more verse-
thank God!
this then?
this is not verse,
this is a song.

i am love drunk.
i have no veins or blood vessels,
no heart or kidneys.
i am a roll-top desk
filled with innumerable drawers
with labels marked
in white ink, brown ink.
red ink, blue ink,
vermilion, saffron, mauve,
sienna, aprcot,
turquoise,
onyx.

it is to my soulmate i am singing.
i wish i could sing better,
more mellodiously,
but my songs are
always off-key.

the thing is:
i want to sing!
i am consumed.
i glow with a white flame.
i am mad.
i am tone deaf.
i am....
in love!