enchanted

I listened from a great distance.
Yes truly. Yet time unconcerned
vanished in mere moments
of hearing her captivating voice.
But I felt nothing of that space
weighing down upon me,
as I was sure it must have done.
Rather, it was as if she were here
beside me, her hand in mine,
her warmth imbuing each moment
with the sweetest tenderness.

I looked at the somber mountains
surrounding this arid valley
and saw them gleeful glimmer
as they had not done in ages.
I breathed in the once stale air,
allowed it to course through me
filling my lungs with vigor,
and felt immediately refreshed.
I listened to my heart beating
with a youthful vitality that I
thought had long since dissipated.

Each word she spoke touched
my once sorrowful soul
like a beloved song, like a
primal prayer, as if somehow
they had been enchanted.
En. Chant. Yes. That was it.
For there is indeed a magic,
an enchantment in the spoken word
that humanity has long attended.
As have I. So have we all. As
beyond the illusions resides a truth.

I listened enraptured.
And in her voice
I perceived serenity
and a joyful hope
beyond measure.

salt lake city 07 may 2022

how to speak

I have clung to this world, this life
with such indulgent determination,
relishing religiously the certainty
that it was meant for me and I for it.

I composed verses even in youth
although intent on teasing forth far
more than admiration from fairest
a lass I had only naively adored.

Words wound through me truly
tempting taut a mild milkweed
of a man who barely understood
pain any more fully than pleasure.

I chased the fae around the world,
wailing in my misfortunes and
climactically moaning all too severely,
like a player on a soiled stage.

I adored life with all its ambiguities.
I lusted after anonymous lovers
in the guise of a noble companion
with words borrowed from the Bard.

Yet the closest I have ever come
to unfettered unadorned passion
has been while standing naked
beneath boldly Brighid’s gaze.

Insensate now these pillars of my past
innumerably cluttering dusty drawers—
I will have no more of them, of this
persistently pointless pattering,

for inspired by you, mo ghràidh,
have I finally learned how to speak.

İstanbul 22 December 2021

poetry

Poetry is my voice—
it is how I speakingly
explore this life, this
worldly being bleeding
moments of profusely
personal me needing,
never knowing what
or even if these words
any meaning beyond
this me, this moment
might attain, and yet
certain of this alone:
that this world owes
me nothing, while
I infinitely always will
remain beholden for
the immense beauty
she has blessed me with
and the voice with which
to adore her.

İstanbul 21 December 2021

the author

her voice majestic
mouthing mysteries
is nothing less than
incomparable

it teases my soul
tracing timidly timbers
that constitute a forest
perfectly pristine

marbled minutiae
trembling titter truths
that my hungry thoughts
insatiable engulf

but most of all I yes
must leafing admit
that listening to her
draws forth my soul

in honestly offered
tones of reverence

İstanbul 16 December 2021

your voice

It amazes me yet
how defiantly this life
craves ever my attention.

Why me? When all
is said and needfully done,
why should I still be?

I have known lives
far better than my own
much more deserving.

With each passing day
the distance grows into
a petty persistent growl.

Another day, another year
as time selfishly scratches
across my aching skin.

Why me? Why drag
this fading soul through
angry scaly days to come?

I long…

for the noisy distance to end,
for time to bid sweet reprieve,
to hold, be held, be known—

to hear you with my skin.

your heart

have you heard
how your heart beats
have you felt its insistence
felt its persistent pleading
trembling the needing flesh
you press against me

there is a voice
i more than hearing feel
peeling back the layers
of aging bark blanketing
the tallest trees rising
over the Santa Cruz mountains

there is a voice
that shimmering hums
strumming the seeding vines
the sweetly tumbling lines
of coolest winter snow
urgently flowing in the spring

there is a voice
deep in the knowing earth
that growing celebrates hope
and hearth and ever home
and never dares abandon
the fervent heart of you

that even now beats
across the breathing
of my skin

voice in the distance

when first i heard
the voice in the distance
i felt the edges of time
drawing swiftly near

my veinèd hand trembled
as if my very heart
had been exposed at once
to the light of the moon

and each heavenly star
swaying above sang sweetly
a chorus composing
the truest harmony

the walls encircling me
abandoned their pretence
and revealed a lush garden
of lilac and sycamore

and through the verdant trees
the flute and the whistle
beckoned the eager fiddle
to join in the dance

when first i heard
the voice in the distance
i knew my timid life
would never be the same

again

Salt Lake City 28 Jan 2013

echoes

do you hear yourself
how your voice echoes
through closed doors
and thickly stuccoed walls
and proudly pagan flesh
aching particles of hope
and sensual suffering
so unbearably intimate
as to precisely pierce
with poignant accuracy
a naïve lover’s heart
like an arrow sharpened
by divine Diana herself
still furious at Acteon’s
unfortunate vision

Salt Lake City 29 Dec 2012