Gilgamesh (To Poetry) [Sonnet]

In papyrus robe, Gilgamesh, our God,
erects Uruk upon our silent dreams:
‘Tis we who see the deep, a pale facade
which poetry amends where conscious streams.
We walk the narrow path of thought’s still pain
to find what balances the mind’s tip-toe;
We climb the highest mountains of the brain
to stand atop each sense concealed by snow.
We dream Enkidu; dream the human mind,
but sleep inside a world astray from life —
Is it we, or God, that chooses to find
the life that lives beyond all human strife?

When death awakes to take the poet’s breath,
His dreams, eternal, enter Gilgamesh.

Butterfly. (Sonnet) [2012]

‘Tis the butterfly’s wings that consume me,
With hugs erect to smother me breathless,
O, how queer is the butterfly’s beauty,
when its quivers may tickle me senseless.
Its wings flit to the song of thy being,
and now methinks ’tis part of advancements,
But out of awe I find myself fleeing
above the wings of love’s own detachment.
I shall hark at the wings that impair me,
In hopes that I evoke some rebuttal,
to questions ignored by the deity;
How can I breathe when choked by wings’ cuddles?
If a butterfly is a mock of charm,
I shall pluck its wings to avenge its harm.

The Endless Dream (To Earth)

Where is the moon in minutes made eternal,
when breath beholds the brain before this quiet eve?
Is it ecstasy or air that sings this world’s refrain
through my eye’s verdant gaze and visionary reed?

The grass, it flips the sand away
From waters deep unto this forest’s door,
As vapid moonlight falls at bay
From vessels harbored ‘pon our starry shore,
Where saucers sail unto the great unknown
Beyond that heaven we blindly conceived through fate,
And further than Apollo’s clever home
where eternity tends to the poets of late.

Where but with poetry might my soul confess
its inward understanding of this world’s lost love,
and break me from this spell of human flesh
to watch Earth from an eye I know not of.

Beneath the buoy of the moon,
Beneath the blue beyond the sea,
We drown in cities that dream
The endless dream,
where war is sacred,
where greed is blessed,
where madness proud,
where life oppressed.

I see vacant eyes where souls have been vexed
By a world that is etched to the edge of its end,
Where happiness nestles in the heart’s dim nest,
Unhatched, thus held within us shadowed men.

Is it oblivion, or a vision
That we all wait upon?
Is it myself, or my soul
That chooses to be free?
In what night might we listen
To this world’s patient song,
And awaken as one,

Eyes as fragile as the dawn.