Morning Without You

Imago

Image from google images

You embrace me in gold chrysalis,
place me hidden,
inside, soft and wet.
Partake the latent;
begetting words
hung from hooks
of silk.

And in your tasting,
I become more than my body
on your tongue.
Immovable, sleepless,
I relinquish my will,
await for the imago.
Whilst you wait for me.

Carol Ann Duffy: First Woman Poet Laureate for Great Britian

Bridge

haiku

"Bridge"

Between the heart-line

and life-line, there is a strength.

You can find me there.

“Late have I loved you…You were within me, but I was outside…You were with me, but I was not with you. You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness…You dispelled my blindness…You touched me, and I burned for your peace.”

~St. Augustine~

"Yet"

I sit down to eat a meal

but I am not hungry.

I am lonely,

so I tread down to the river

and lay on the grass,

feed on the sun

and the lapping water.

The seagulls overhead,

search for something

in wide, white arcs.

I wish I was Whitman

with his stomping leather boots and open shirt,

making love to my own soul on the grass.

So I take off my sandals, try in vain

to avoid duck shit

and feel the tender, giving earth

beneath my soles.

Sieze the grass in my fists

as if it were the wild hair of my lover

and wait.

But I do not love my soul yet.

I look up to the trees,

boughs thrust towards one another.

Bleed in seamless, lilac shadows.

Leaves pursue the rippled water,

consoled by their own reflection.

Out of the mute dark

they labor the whiteness of roots

into a new century.

Allow themselves to be hollowed out

by disease and lovemaking

in order to bear the silence.

Whitman makes me wonder

if he was able to love just one woman.

He craved

everyone and everything

and every portion

as if he were God himself.

My plight roots me here.

But I do love the world,

this grass, my river,

the fat, full ducks

who refuse my bread.

Written by K.

5/29/09

Bare-stript Heart

From "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman

I believe in you my soul,

the other I am must not abase itself to you,

And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass,

loose the stop from your throat,

Not words, not music or rhyme I want,

not custom or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay

such a transparent summer morning,

How you settled your head

athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,

And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone,

and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,

And reach'd till you felt my beard,

and reach'd till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me

the peace and knowledge

that pass all the argument of the earth,

And I know that the hand of God

is the promise of my own,

And I know that the spirit of God

is the brother of my own,

And that all the men ever born

are also my brothers,

and the women my sisters and lovers,

And that a kelson of the creation is love...

From "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman