Flower Of Love

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day. From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song, Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong. Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed, You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

Sonnet Xxv

Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: I wavered through the streets, among Objects: Nothing mattered or had a name: The world was made of air, which waited. I knew rooms full of ashes, Tunnels where the moon lived, Rough warehouses that growled 'get lost', Questions that insisted in the sand.

A Hand-Mirror

HOLD it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is it? Is it you?) Outside fair costume--within ashes and filth, No more a flashing eye--no more a sonorous voice or springy step; Now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step, A drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face, venerealee's flesh, Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous, Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination, Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams, Words babble, hearing and touch callous,

Anna Who Was Mad

Anna who was mad, I have a knife in my armpit. When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages. Am I some sort of infection? Did I make you go insane? Did I make the sounds go sour? Did I tell you to climb out the window? Forgive. Forgive. Say not I did. Say not.

Afternoon In February

The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red.

In The Forest

HERE, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead, Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red, Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire. We are weary, my heart, we are weary, so long we have borne The heavy loved burden of dreams that are dead, let us rest, Let us scatter their ashes away, for a while let us mourn; We will rest, O my heart, till the shadows are gray in the west.

A Sea-Side Walk

We walked beside the sea, After a day which perished silently Of its own glory---like the Princess weird Who, combating the Genius, scorched and seared, Uttered with burning breath, 'Ho! victory!' And sank adown, an heap of ashes pale; So runs the Arab tale. The sky above us showed An universal and unmoving cloud,

I Was Dead

I had my dinner and Slept around 10 of night After a couple hour or so I found myself dead Ya, I was dead My body had become motionless Eyes shut, hands erect What about my dreams and aims All gone, all shattered Man, I was dead

The Seed-Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie, Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry - Meadows and gardens running through my hand. In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams; A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust That will drink deeply of a century's streams; These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Death & Fame

When I die I don't care what happens to my body throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery But l want a big funeral St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark, Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-

Thank You My Mom

For standing by me all the way.......... For helping me through the awful day.............. For being always there for me........... For all my secrets that you have intently heared.................... all those secrets that you have never revealed............. For suporting me in every aspect or field........... For cheering me when I felt sad..............

Here Is A Wound That Never Will Heal, I Know

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know, Being wrought not of a dearness and a death, But of a love turned ashes and the breath Gone out of beauty; never again will grow The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath Shall be such bitterness of an old woe. That April should be shattered by a gust, That August should be levelled by a rain,

A Ballad Of Burial

If down here I chance to die, Solemnly I beg you take All that is left of "I" To the Hills for old sake's sake, Pack me very thoroughly In the ice that used to slake Pegs I drank when I was dry -- This observe for old sake's sake. To the railway station hie,

Ballade At Thirty-Five

This, no song of an ingénue, This, no ballad of innocence; This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever her natural bents. This, a solo of sapience, This, a chantey of sophistry, This, the sum of experiments, -- I loved them until they loved me. Decked in garments of sable hue,

* What Is Life? *

Aggress legitimately I can hear screams from the back of the barns "somebody help, someone help, call 911, my daughter is bleeding". Yvonne,16, cuts her wrist as she figures, that's the only exit, to Hell Her wild life has taken its toll Her parents were too exhumed with exuberant life They can't afford to be back dated

Ave Atque Vale

Through many countries and over many seas I have come, Brother, to these melancholy rites, to show this final honour to the dead, and speak (to what purpose?) to your silent ashes, since now fate takes you, even you, from me. Oh, Brother, ripped away from me so cruelly, now at least take these last offerings, blessed by the tradition of our parents, gifts to the dead. Accept, by custom, what a brother’s tears drown, and, for eternity, Brother, ‘Hail and Farewell’.

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

The Forest Reverie

'Tis said that when The hands of men Tamed this primeval wood, And hoary trees with groans of woe, Like warriors by an unknown foe, Were in their strength subdued, The virgin Earth Gave instant birth To springs that ne'er did flow That in the sun Did rivulets run, And all around rare flowers did blow

Aging Poet

Come and see the old poet Laying in his bed of ashes and dust, His love in ruins His mentality frozen by restless rust, His hungry heart emptied of it's fertile blood His souls melodic purpose nearly gone, The mellifluous music now so silent The end, of a once wonderful and powerful song. What happened to this poet

The Candle

Burning and melting, Lightning but no thunder, Tears dropping drown like icicles, Freezing but not cool, Having lost, Smoothness of her body, She is hot, The hot icicles have changed her shape, Still graceful, Looking more beautiful,