other ways

beyond_language_poetry

 

There are other ways
than language.

Let’s observe
simply
the fire before us.

The way a match
ignites to startle
a moment.

Look for the softest light
a distant wildfire
quiet because it is
involved in night.

The kind of surface
that melts the sun
into a tiny
puddle of gold.

This is more of
primeval voice
returning its wind
to the rain.

This is mouth
allowing for song
to water its
valley.

This is still
earth living
behind a window
seeing its ground
swallow
pregnant fruit.

There are other ways
than ideas.

Let’s dry the story
and blind the
behavior.

See the strong
shadow stumble
to break its
shell.

The ground
fertile
with the patience
of time.

This is more
of the ocean
leaking its body
to closely
understand
the sand.

Once we pull
language
as a thorn
out of the world.

This
and only
this
will remain.

amount of unknown

poetry_21st_Century.jpg

 

A colossal amount
of unknown
slides down
the pearl
barely visible
of the sky.

A naked
cloud
I shivered
the cold wind
arranged as moss
invisibly padding
my arms
the car races
its lights inhaled
by the horizon.

My meaning
depends
on the weather
low lying thoughts
heavy with mist
or diaphanous silence
for intelligence
to connect the bird’s speech
with the stone’s stare.

How sharp
must the world
the geese in arrow
become
the last sun
cutting deep my eye
blinding with wetness
the world
inside my tear.

My story
insufficient
melts back
into buddha
tonight it’s night
more like star
fleeing
as long stream
of light.

golden

21st_century_poet_pablo_Saborio.jpg

 

The message
enters the room
without a body.

Pure cave
round as
echo
undulating with
transparency.

The air is crust
hanging from the walls
see that fruit ripe
tremendously heavy
about to fall,

the light
makes a moat
just around the edges
to leave an island
of shadow
in its center.

The message
thicker than voice
makes viscous flow
of experience

as it leaves
through amaranthine
twilight-pregnant
window.

The message
golden collides
with the gold
of the streetlamp.

Some leaves are
curved still
by the curb
as night enters
as a sort of sound
muffled but total.

The ear eager
lends its arm
like a root
to the column
of the message.

The hearer
sees only sound
the world’s substance
seeping like syrup
into this music.

The listener’s body
dances first as fire
then as air
finally as
hum.

The message
and the body
meet.

The body
and the sound.

The music
and the veins.

The room
now filled with water
drowns the message.

The body
nothing but song
remains as
world.

First Instance of the Void.

the_void
I was born
too dangerously
close to the silence.

My eye made
great effort
to shine above
the stillness.

It was violently
obvious that I could
not carry into
the melody
that peace removes
from the world
of instants
to the next
of eternal observation.

It did not take
much time
however
to wrap my body
with the thickest
and most ephemeral
clouds.

And then
I found the mirror
through which
the core of living
is reflected
like a perfect example
of deep –
truly profound
sleep.