Thursday, November 22, 2012
A Taste of Ashes
Henry Miller, writing, as he often did,
Of girls who plied their trade,
Said sometimes he would take one on
Out of loneliness and boredom
Although it left the taste of ashes
Of course, he was young then
And so needed the desperate burn
Of unloving penetration to sense
The decay consuming him and her,
The slow smolder and its waste
Ah, Henry, as you grow older
You will know the constant presence
Of that taste
All fire to ash, all iron into rust
All things finally falling, failing, dust
And, yet, you will be saved
By hope, insoucience, gaeity, and joy,
By memory and words,
And even by the fears that haunt your dreams
And send you into streets on sleepless nights
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Clarity
And as the sun rose
And earth and air and water warmed,
The silt of gray fog
Dissolved into translucent haze
And then the dead tree
I had seen from across the lake
Lifted its face to me
And, turning, bounded up the hill
Even now, just now
Our eyes look into other eyes
And we need not wait
To stand in awed and sacred gaze
And earth and air and water warmed,
The silt of gray fog
Dissolved into translucent haze
And then the dead tree
I had seen from across the lake
Lifted its face to me
And, turning, bounded up the hill
Even now, just now
Our eyes look into other eyes
And we need not wait
To stand in awed and sacred gaze
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