*
having infinity
taking over me
that is my practice
in the desert
to rehearse boundless
to have a sip of
eternity once
in a while
.
.
*
having infinity
taking over me
that is my practice
in the desert
to rehearse boundless
to have a sip of
eternity once
in a while
.
.
*
under or above
removed from usual
grounds from valleys
to enter quieter realms
stillness and marvel
to be marginal
observing whether
with fish or birds
a new silence
lingering in
eternity
This poem is part of the collection Crossing Riviera.
By the way, in case you wish to give me some feedback based on your experience or instruction, this new Blocks Editor DRIVES ME CRAZY!!! Not sure it works for poems… even the Schedule seems more lengthy and complicated and, sorry for the past few weeks, missing the usual posting time and dates – I was experimenting with the Block Editor! Arrgh…
*
while we artists
on earth spend days
hardly making
a living as we struggle
to find the right
hues the precise color
to define a day
to portray time tell me
my dear where
you now indulge beauty
where time is
no more what color is
the forever
.
⁃ To Michelle Pelletier –
.
.
*
I was once
part of my dad
and also part of
my mother
later but not so
literally I was part
of someone else’s
further I will be part
of the trees’ roots
contributing to the
flowers’ beauty
part of water
somewhere in
the sky all along
I was part of god
but here you
stiffen and say
I cannot
prove it
.
.
.
This poem is on page 55 of the published bilingual collection California Notebooks 02.
.
.
*
I wish no one
to die without a hint
of poetry
a hue of love
compassion or
passion
I wish you
all the urge to cross
over this
threshold
while in your home
a nice skin
seeking a touch
from heaven to come
.
.
.
.
This poem is at page 107 in the new “California Notebooks 02” soon to be out!
.
.
*
when dad died they
clothed him for funeral
his hands so beautiful
crossed over his chest
they were the only thing
talking of him to me
I took a picture my
relatives anger rose
I could not avoid that
I haven’t seen it once
that picture it’s hiding
away to be gazed at on
a day when I’ll accept
distance or enjoy
closeness where
will my hands
go when I die
not on my chest
nor on my belly
for that short
time of the viewing
a sense of lack
of no more breath
a heaviness not favoring
digestion nor straight aside
as a soldier of whose army
.
.
.
.
.