Supermoon effect and other bruises

midnight wind
bring her this breath of jasmine
return with her kiss

or with her scent
to lull me into sleep

if I breathe poetry
it is to give birth to stars
and that ancient fire-

the substance that shaped the heart
and the womb of a woman

shinobi walk
in the flooded streets of

calm before the storm-
perhaps in another life
you are my tempest

closest encounter
fingers cross for clearer skies-
super supermoon

now give me your storm
i am but a naked poem
written on a wall

your silence is drowning me
into the ocean of verbs

morning drizzle-
in the northern hemisphere
a summer solstice

rice in a box
on a rainy night-
my bohemian life

it will pass I know
after the summer solstice-
this madness called love

the narcissism
that fuels the web

in search of new earths-
sending my verses
into deep space

a long Sunday-
so tired of waiting for
a word from you

I am still hoping to see
the supermoon tonight

you have two targets to bleed¯
the moon and my heart

moon over Dasma-
there’s a sad song in the air
longing to be heard

and there’s a poem in my head
that’s yearning to be written

this purple rain again
this emptiness

I think I know the answer
but not what the heart desires

letting them fall into places
the broken pieces of my self

undeath me a poem
with one sweep of a verb-kiss
from your sapphic lips

Epistle to Ebard

true poetry must speak in spontaneous speech
like unto the will of the fleeting wind
it sings its own note and tune to teach
the heart what is to be heard

it need not
be expressed to hide mirth and misery
to maintain the manner you learned by heart
nor shall you lack of caution when using
prosaic or archaic words in your verse

a dead word is dead if it stands alone
but lives if it is constantly used
nor an archaic used in any attempts
in prose or in poetry which may denote
or connote a new meaning worth knowing

never deprive yourself as to ignore
the transient music in your inmost self
and the personae that whispers freely
into th’ ears of your imagination
what you hear is the true poetry itself
and however old it is always new

have you no trouble to be one with nature
earnest meditation becalms the soul
when filled with nature’s symmetry express
what the soul devoured what the mind installed

oft you may not see the flaws in your art
as those learned men even the slightest fault
they find alas! there goes your art disdained
how an honest imitation of life
it may be

have you ample time to be seasoned
cultivate and do not suffer your art
every poet believes in his self
and in his work produced however deep
or dull for common minds to be construed


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