Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III

Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III Poems

'I said to the almond tree, 'Speak to me of God'. And the almond tree blossomed.' - Hubert Selby Jr.


Where is it?
...

One day I wish to know,
as the scars of devils do,
when your eyes, married to the auburn fox,
will remove their pantheon of petrified ghosts
...

I heard a song of a lost messiah.

Who walked with a barstool's enthusiasm,
while preaching his post card gospel...
...

I did not wish to sleep with old gods
that stand trying to evoke the grey skyline of modernity

That preach on hummingbird wires
...

Love stumbles in slowly,
with a gypsy stanza of wounded shadows pouring the
faded light off a checkerboard stage...
the echoed command of the flagships golden oval banner.
...

When you forget me,
forgetful one.

Dont deny my coda,
...

The curtains are covered in black eyes,
(but with a Hostel in Meinz, what past could see so different)

while the light of the world intrudes the face of my new regrets
...

What matters is that it happens.

That air shivers memory;
a clandestine proclamation of returns and free exits.
...

9.

Just the fracture of the night’s resurrection
swallows the warrior of the moon

Our trivial patronage leaves us again to contemplate;
...

The pink reflection of dawn....

Galloping symmetry of Whitman's salutations.
...

We are all Nameless
...

Open, gray wound.

The silver Katana of light
smears her ashen face
...

Night, my old friend,
why are you hiding?

Are you not being forgiven for leaving?
...

Was it you who unlocked my ears! ?
Good sir, dancer of
silver tongues!
...

Don't let the night forget to outlast the simple genesis
of my unstable surroundings.

Bless the holy contrition
...

Past 3 O’Clock (For B.B. King)

There was so much rain in your voice.
Daytimes that slept with shadows.
...

We have so many breaths that we have collected,
calculated,
queried,
placed into the caverns of our eyes,
...

Do not wait for me to yield

by the tired steps
ached with molded fevers.
...

I no longer hear voices,
only grunts and vibrations.

Noises, imitating life.
...

'I fell into the ocean,
and you became my wife.' - Tom Waits
...

Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III Biography

'Out of the thousands who are known, or who want to be known as poets, maybe one or two are genuine and the rest are fakes, hanging around the sacred precincts trying to look like the real thing. Needless to say I am one of those fakes, and this is my story.' - Leonard Cohen)

The Best Poem Of Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III

Intangible Sparks

'I said to the almond tree, 'Speak to me of God'. And the almond tree blossomed.' - Hubert Selby Jr.


Where is it?
...The opening thread?

The muzzled breath
of our fruitful beginning.


It is Time:
The bounteous intrusion,
an illuminated spark,
whimsically growing
with undetermined consequences.

A dream purposely manifested
to scour with blind intention...

..just as the air that frolics lost
in the daybreak,
unbeknownst its wild
destiny, spawned by an elusive
query...

constantly penetrating itself.

(I smile with an echo of providence,
knowing this lonely breath I nurture
will swim through your body and one day escape you)

A quilted flame,
decorating the shivered spectrum.

Phantasmic and dense
boquets of color,
dressed buoyantly and boisterous
as a love stricken song bird;
decorating
the spring
with solitary echoes.

It is the quiet voice
that nibbles at the cinnamon back
of uncertainty.

Casting a perennial wave
that stirs the liquid
foundation of this avenue
of transparency.

This hummingbird reality of
infinite stillness,
the inertia of mortality
that silently ascends:
...............a heart bathed in shadow
...............a world dressed in the
thin gown of morning dew; relishing the nude awakening.

(The dawn is a golden bride;
uncovering her fertile tapestries
and unlocking her hair of August rivers and
the cream eyes of Don Quixotes Lace,
veiled in webs of virgin crystal)

...............a word that grasps
a magenta shield and passively tracks
the frail enigma of humanity...
..and its arbitrary scope.

For all days are an affair of pearl tongues,
violently wilting forward
through the mermaid sky,
contemplating the shallow turns
that leak through the
curtains of smoke.

Wondering how this voice seeps
through an evaporating window.

Wondering why enchantment
rhymes with sorrow.

Wondering what avalanche
of sparrows will
shovel through the tar canvas.


A day is born...
..showering a melodious
vesper through the unread
sunrise.

Rinsing the sins of yesterday (for sin carries us with phantom wings)

and soaking our emptiness with prominent wonder.

Multitudes of light glisten
over my weatherbeaten
brow;
my eyes stumble open
to a silver kaleidoscope,
withering into focus.

The wounded fireplace shakes
loose its former dynasty
and the final stand of strawberry
embers.

....a nimble ghost of smoke
rises from a lipstick
candle,
while her wax blood
is lingering a final stretch
towards the bronzle mantle
and the graying hardwood floor...

Peering into the gleaming
aurora,
as the grass
glimmers with the
garnished moisture
of a bed soaked
lover,
this magnificent vibration overwhelms me with
a plethora of light..

and in this vagrant epiphany lives a
trembling door...

And i unfold...
into the fresh
colors
of symmetry.

The blinding orb,

cascading the purple
benevolence. The last strands
of the infant daylight,
smearing into the peach horizon.

To pierce the infinite sky
and the shimmering dough clouds.
To scoop
the emerald sea.

To cover my face
in the ripe plaster
of stone.

To skip the pebbled stars
over the ocean of night
and watch myself echo.

To dine on a forest of mirrors.

To drink from a Jasmine
cup of
Spanish Daggers.

To dive into the
....bank of
......emptiness.

....To see my Grandfather again....
His winter hair and
bifocals of buried
moons.

Dancing on a teal mountain
with a silver grin,
laughing at the
gallows
of men...
With their straw bishops
and clover knights.

Taking his limestone fingers
and skeleton reverberations..

Dissecting the heavens
with a flooded stare
and his unhinged imagination...
While spilling a
coral whisper
that swallowed my ears.

'To die is to believe
there is nothing more.
To live is to
untie the mask.'

(I always knew there was more when I left your chilly grave,
only to return and see a wedding of heart lilies)


Life:
A courtship of prayer
and solitude.

A wine of footsteps.

An unmeasurable chime
singing a transparent
reflection,
sharing the unwoven magic
that entwines us all.

To live:
To scour through the
field of machetes.

To walk through
the vale of
doors,
constantly reopening
themselves.

To drift in a
boat of shadow,
to search for the
seed of light
planted in the
valley of your soul.

To unbury a tree
and rattle
its roots for
the unpolished thirst
swelling in
the dry harvest.

To ceaselessly fire
the arrow
into the starving night.
Hunting for the
death of
anger.

To ring a bell
that weeps
silently
in a storm of unmarried collisions,
hoping to rehatch a sound.

To stand over
the edge of memory...
and leap
into the unknown mist.


Perhaps our truth
is to excavate
the labyrinth of the subtle wind chimb,
to stand quietly
overtaken by our fruitful endeavors.

To whisper aimlessly
beyond the sun,
for hope of a
distant echo.

Perhaps it is best to tremble
in the elegant wave
of our minds
and bask in the parade...

If it is true,
then prosper quietly.

I will be on the other side of eternity...

unfolding a stone...

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