OTHER WRITING

Poetry

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

- James Joyce

Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.

- Allen Ginsberg

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.

- Emily Dickinson
Rome's embrace

Rome has known ruins so deeply,
It cannot love without losing.
Rome loved me for who I was,
Not for the truths I came across.

 

Moonlight, moonlight—endless stage,
It bathes the ruins, hides their age.
A glint like tears on marble's face,
Both time and love leave their faint trace.

 

Rome took, Rome gave, and still believed,
In who I was, or claimed to be.
Its walls held echoes, shadows brief,
A city trapped in memory.

A Moonlight memory

There is no difference
Between sentimental and moonlight,
For I remember all my nights I spent with you,
In your arms, caressing your face so true.
The moon cast shadows, soft and wide,
A glow that held our hearts inside.

 

Time may pass, but the feeling stays,
In every moonbeam, in endless ways.
Your touch, a memory, vivid and near,
A love once whispered, now crystal clear.
In the silence, I still find your trace,
In the moonlight, caressing your face.

A Moonlight memory

A tiny waterfall beside a lily pond

I paint the life as it is                 

lying on warm grass with an old friend                                           

but you are fading away my love

 

An enchanted gaze of a young man                                 

cursed with unrequited love of my cousin.                   

watching clouds shaped like cats drift by                           

starving for a perfectly simple death.

 

I see my spirit buried             

in that charcoal painting

Looking for someone to love

what a wonderful way to die.                                              

 

I smelled rosebuds today.

Scent of spring, the study of love

The Artist's Solitude

Happiness you feel as an artist, born from sorrow,
Romanticizing loneliness, embracing tomorrow.
Happy in solitude, with thoughts alone,
Describing a painting, where stories are sown.
Thousands of tales untold, light worn thin,
Wordsworth’s daffodils sway in the wind.
Death in the woods, a spiritual father near,
Spiritual heroism, facing the fear.
Writing poetry, suggesting the world we can make,
Habituating this life, for our own sake.

The Summer of 1889


After the summer of 1889

Under the leaden sky, lilac anemones

Fresh grass in the park

and the birds singing new songs.

 

An unhappy man

fell in love with a widow

He painted one of the most moving paintings

A very image of dissolution.

 

Somewhere in the ocean of regret

He finds beauty in the mundane

walking around old city

I can’t think of a worse deal.

 

I hope one day he falls in love

under the moonlight’s gaze.

The Dance of Summer Grass

Spear of summer grass,
Everything is material, passing fast.
Unraveling before your eyes,
Lamenting a world that fell, its cries.
Appreciation of vitality in mundane sight,
Banal experiences, chasing light.
Doomed to feeling good, a blissful chase,
A poet of disappearing spring in this place.
He captures energy, his heart in lyrical flow,
Writing is performance, all writers are actors, in tow.

Echoes of God in Her Eyes

Rays come from the heavenly world,
Yet shadows linger upon the earth.
Philosophy calls for action,
But the heart still yearns for meaning.

 

A world where God is missing,
Where silence drowns the sacred hymn.
Human life lacks soulfulness,
Drifting, lost in hollow dreams.

 

My eyes filled, heart of silence,
I swooned when I first saw her.
In her gaze, the stars were singing,
As if God had found me there.

 

Love and faith entwined like fire,
Burning bright within the dark.
Through her presence, I remembered,
Heaven was never far apart.