In Jacqueline's gaze a truth resides.
Within her soul I find my silence.
Throughout life’s whirlpool our love remains true.
In her smile I find my embrace.
The years have passed but memories recall
the moments we shared in our concealed retreat.
In silent nights I recall her voice.
in Jacqueline's arms I find my sleep.
CYCLING
Cycling with you in summer 1989,
I am riding close behind you,
with the breeze in your hair,
and I can smell your scent
as we ride downhill towards the river,
with the sun in front of us, forming
a halo around your body and making
you almost a silhouette.
In your summer shorts and shirt,
that is tied in a knot above your navel,
your beauty enlivens my spirit, and
my soul yearns for your love.
You are the queen of my heart,
and the mistress of my soul—
an angel of delight sent from heaven
to show me how to love.
OUT IN THE WORLD
No one sees the darkest hiss of rain
or the authority of selfish tears
in the rattle of liquid night
like timber packets
Alone hot struggles of kitchen fire
that is her trade
driving her rampart
a woman unconsciously witnessed
with auburn hair low from time’s complexion
that nobody watched
The boatman passes like a gust
absently he comes scratching
cursing all the time
always afraid
strolling to him feels like plunging
Mud errands high hair unmoving
flat time downriver from uninterrupted
books I came not to take employment
for the room had not changed
Able herself supported
she walked with undercut pride
or perhaps with something better
Admit the truth
open the window
goodbye to houses and hello to farms
this is the way things are
out in the world
I SUPPOSE WE’LL WORK SOMETHING OUT
Nature charms you
outside the temple were things
will be understood though wrongly directed.
Unhappy idealists discover
doubts about principles or
otherwise confuse themselves.
Mansions bare the parched streets
where visitors gather by
statues with ironclad
stepping stone traps.
Accented people in the thin city
with frustrated friends
find destiny tumbles
in terror.
Deep in love like resentment
dragons and hyperbolic death
women remark that
men go out
on winter mornings habitually
balanced yet visible
in the way of the spent
room.
Gathering like the rest of society’s
house bought off with chairs
and wine congratulations
and with barbaric modesty
cultivated in vapours
my teachers come to me.
GOING HOME
“Looking in the mirror—
mirror
mirror
mirror
Tomorrow—bright light.
I will see God tonight.”
Thanks for running after that bus for me, Dad.
Cycling with you in summer 1989,
I am riding close behind you,
with the breeze in your hair,
and I can smell your scent
as we ride downhill towards the river,
with the sun in front of us, forming
a halo around your body and making
you almost a silhouette.
In your summer shorts and shirt,
that is tied in a knot above your navel,
your beauty enlivens my spirit, and
my soul yearns for your love.
You are the queen of my heart,
and the mistress of my soul—
an angel of delight sent from heaven
to show me how to love.
OUT IN THE WORLD
No one sees the darkest hiss of rain
or the authority of selfish tears
in the rattle of liquid night
like timber packets
Alone hot struggles of kitchen fire
that is her trade
driving her rampart
a woman unconsciously witnessed
with auburn hair low from time’s complexion
that nobody watched
The boatman passes like a gust
absently he comes scratching
cursing all the time
always afraid
strolling to him feels like plunging
Mud errands high hair unmoving
flat time downriver from uninterrupted
books I came not to take employment
for the room had not changed
Able herself supported
she walked with undercut pride
or perhaps with something better
Admit the truth
open the window
goodbye to houses and hello to farms
this is the way things are
out in the world
I SUPPOSE WE’LL WORK SOMETHING OUT
Nature charms you
outside the temple were things
will be understood though wrongly directed.
Unhappy idealists discover
doubts about principles or
otherwise confuse themselves.
Mansions bare the parched streets
where visitors gather by
statues with ironclad
stepping stone traps.
Accented people in the thin city
with frustrated friends
find destiny tumbles
in terror.
Deep in love like resentment
dragons and hyperbolic death
women remark that
men go out
on winter mornings habitually
balanced yet visible
in the way of the spent
room.
Gathering like the rest of society’s
house bought off with chairs
and wine congratulations
and with barbaric modesty
cultivated in vapours
my teachers come to me.
GOING HOME
“Looking in the mirror—
mirror
mirror
mirror
Tomorrow—bright light.
I will see God tonight.”
Thanks for running after that bus for me, Dad.