modern poems

sermon of blah

real_poetry

 

The rain poured
a glass of wine
through my lips,
solid chunks of sky
hitting relentlessly
the thin slice of dome,
my head dizzy
reciting the do-re-mi-
cascade of water
breaking into bullets
and merging then
back into puddle.

This started earlier tonight,
white stone sheets,
dense air cool by November,
darkness so natural to thought
that my eyes were shut,
whatever observes
what the eyes exclude,
silently observing
my complicity
with melancholy itself.

So the sermon of blah,
almighty course of opinion,
eternal genesis of monologue,
running never away from me,
but through me.

At this point
anything can happen,
repeat repeat,
or the moon’s light
rising as smoke
into the hair that is your,
to the night I speak,
body’s cosmos.

The rain dwindling,
at this point,
the ache can be melody –

cool whiteness of breath
entering the sore river
of the night,
this time my body of thought,
the house with the wonderful
arch to welcome pain inside.

Do I have hope?

That is,
to some degree,
the question
that draws this poem.

and the emptiness of

poetry of despair 2013

A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock

after death

love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand

every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol

of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic

mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes

love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand

those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;

the forgotten
labyrinth of him.

Contemporary Poetry

rockn’roll

dream_poetry

I paid
and he asks
how I’ve been
he left a shapeless mass of laughter
in the air
I’ve had a hangover for days
he says: rockn’roll
yeah it hurts
and the hard Furies strangle
each idea with a whip of flame
and in that throb
one must find a quartz
of moonlight under a window
and breathe in an avalanche
and heed the noise
dripping from the tiny tick
of the heart

sharply
the eyes begin
by the sway
of a moon drawn by wings
to sleep

and here
skirting a crater
at the roof of a boundary
I am
washed by a beam of music
pocketing the fog
and perfuming the worn rags of clouds
like in fable
or inside a final
visit.



Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			arterial aerial
		

	


			

			
modern_poetry_blog_21st_Century


Cleave to that place


arterial


the vessel no the aerial


where fading flight merges


with being and life


is no longer


an only particular


thing


but interior of great


continuity


of circulation density


dripping


in center toward


multiplicity


and radiates back


into blood


the skin, your eyes, your hands


the fur of the world


at your fingertips.


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			near everything
		

	


			

			
new_poet_modern


Maybe the air is vertebra

only you walk home

bending the muscle

of time,

a drunk man leaves


on the pub’s counter

the fire of thought

nothing changes


we can amass anguish

into a dragon

and see it writhe in

its halo


find a way knower

comb a molecule at a time

to be handsome


for destiny

that now dissolves in your honey-

dripping cupped hands


perhaps we hang immense

with city at our roots

what matters to be

draped in cloud


when age has a swollen

idea buried like a spine on

the morning soft


earth

step on pure grass

who leaves this animal

to sow in structure


the dream the

struggle

the science


of being such

near everything.


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			Unlikely and nevertheless
		

	


			

			
modern_poem


A flower is

a knot of chiaroscuro

enlightenment entangled in a coil,

finely spread seasons of spirals,

long mournful curves

chained to moment or cycles,

it is sense in a state of song,

desire dense in dew,

a phase suspended in façade

electricity distilled in feature

a flower

is essentially unknown

some element

in petal passion perfume.


 


 


21st century Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			Miserere mei, Deus
		

	


			

			
poetry_of_solitude


You sit

by the bus stop

and study the event

it’s a place

where you’ve cycled

innumerably     a place

where you sit

and watch the light

dissolve in the liquid

of your eye

you’re there because

you don’t know where to be

you’re there because

you’d like to witness

the event

and you see things happening

once and units of behavior

he was speaking to me

through a cloud of thought

through a wind of misery

through a vapor of memory

through a rain of laughter

he was another

man far away from everything

another or other man

another star failing in the dark

another strand of conscious throe

a man from denmark

in the glow of streetlight

toasting and talking spanish

transmitting his monad of sadness

and everything being faraway

like a flash above

our private picture of

solitude.


21st century Poetry


 




					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			any wall
		

	


			

			
berlin_poetry


I am a man

that learnt

at an early age

that I cannot

hold in my hands

the entire world

like a little lovely thing.


I could have had that thought

anywhere in the world,

but it came to me

while I stand here against

a random wall in Berlin,

any wall.


I am a man

that not long ago

considered Thales

the first theoretician,

but fundamentally

wrong as I saw

everything behaving

as smoke.


After a while

things seem sad

fading like a cloud

the world is like a ghost covered in mud

and all our words are pointing at it

like guns

and we’re watching

waiting

for the ethereal blood.


 


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			against the intellect
		

	


			

			
astronomy_poetry


In the pissoir I am a man.

(look above)

some sort of distant collision,

where totalities remain crumbs

see those tiny galaxies

crushing their bones

without emotion in a faraway

dissolution of waves.

I am a man leaving the certainty

of proud world.

I thought I knew the world

when shapes were its body

and chaos its breath.

But even that is a view.

The violence of the mass exists

like pink throbbing in the

dynamite of perception.

I leave the toilet and confront

a scroll of measures and a bunch

of mirrors masking the smoke –

at the core nothing is known.

The sky – like a word –

turns black.

And there’s silence,

like a shadow,

following me home.


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			first time
		

	


			

			
21st_century_poem


 


Remember the beginning

when even purity was a hot coal

in our hands.

The waves of genesis

and we built a clock, a molecule at a time.

We followed the river and

craved of its skin like white fur and foam

to be annihilated as beams and ripples in the sea.

Society was a coffin where we learned a dialogue of echoes.

But now this ear of mine hears the throat of time gutter

so timeless motion of reiteration

its old blossoms of fine appearance.

Now the distance is glazed with my breath.

The elements are trapped in the hard wombs of words

but everything else crumbles as shadows being

faceless in the ash.

Memory, remember when memory was a fruit we had only

tasted once?

I’m frightened because the sky is immense

and I am naked in its clouds

 like a prostitute in the

 wind.


 


 


Contemporary Poetry