Dirty Little Secrets

in stillness
in motion
in the silence of sand
in the roar of the sea
in the salt spray
in a kiss
or a tear
filling and emptying
the sea within
the unconsuming fire
we had no speech
and our oceans
played
beautiful music

sailor, your life
blew the wind
out of the sails
of a mind moving,
sketching the flow
of a spirit
beginning again, and again,
a thousand waves
pound in your heart,
seascapes of imagination,
a blue boat sailing
the last frontier
of consciousness.

In the distance a raven
flew over the deep green peaks
down to the shore,
above are the clouds
and the white gulls circling,
at its feet is the racing foam
of the sea with the ever-deep groan
from the heart of the world,
waves pound their cadence
upon the rocks, raising a mist
at the edge of the world…

She wears a white gown and her hair
of red, like burnished copper,
hangs in damp ringlets about her face,
she looks to the sea and listens
to the winds that sing her song,
however sorry, or woeful,
or touched by immortal grief
it may be, little it matters,
for she knows what leads
beyond all perils,
past the storm of tears…
the lost secret of the world–

Love.

She,
whom princes used to dream of,
bestowed her Love in a Dream,
understanding grace, streaming poetry,
she turned aside,
all alone on her journey,
to preserve Love’s truth, unhidden.
Here it remains, untarnished.
If there are any wishing
to utter falsehoods of it,
it is glimmering, undiminished,
in passive silence.

you saw the stars dancing overhead
and heard the song of my spirit,
wounded, touched with pain,
moving through the darkness,
weary of earth

you found me lying there
in the deep silence of grief,
the black folds of my cloak
encasing broken shards
of my life,

you stood watch over me,
bringing gentle light,
pity so tender and mild,
whispering familiar dreams
in my ear

you brought your cupped hands
to my lips and let me drink,
filling my heart with awe,
and the joy of home and hearth
returned to me

you know and share my longing
for the stars or the beloved
gentleness that stays the blow,
what it means to be immortal and lonely,
but not alone

deeply i have felt love, madly
beyond any caress,
your eyes have their expressiveness:
your most secret hopes are things
which you cannot express -
desires or thoughts, perhaps for me,
or that which i cannot see
because they are too lovely

your passionate look, carefully, will unhinge me
though i have slipped myself into your dreams,
you wander always on your own paths,
plan by plan, the path of least resistance -
myself, as in the past
or future wandered here and there
(traveling silently, tirelessly)
to your sweet present

so if your path be to dance towards me, i and
my tea will meet your lips.
very generously, sweetly,
as when the words of this poet touched
your heart, nearly everywhere being silent;

nothing which we were, or are, was in your eyes
the scent of your soft neck: whose shoulder
my thoughts and desires linger on,
holding fingers and the glance of your eyes

(i do not know what it is about you, that wish
and our lives; only that something in me needs
the soul of your face to warm the future)
my journal, not even my poems,
have such smooth thoughts

. . . . . . . . .

- with a little help from e.e. cummings