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It's a painful joy

It is a painful joy,
this melting stone meeting
with all my timed friends
and my own small satellites
smiling with the simple radiance
only a father can fracture.

All my Spanish guitars
have fallen to the ground
mouldering in the autumn rain.
I dream of thin sopranos
dancing through the woods
naked under a pale moon.

Streets that heave in dreams
of a vast surging ocean
smell of decay and cinnamon.
The night is through with
looking the other way
with neon and liquid shelters.

I have no encircled dominion,
no stoned chiseled epitaph,
nor any other swirling space
where I might die down
and finally find a seasonal peace
unperturbed by the turning wheels.

It's a painful joy,
this backward samba
with no other percussion
than the beating of my heart.
The night scents of tangerine
are chained to a dark hound.

Buildings of choral height
sway in dark derelict requiems
with all the gathered voices
burning pale comets restore
in November's final gesture
to falling winter's inauguration.

I see no conflict in the air,
no unrestored bottle
of flagellant vinegar
rolls over the timeless,
unfettered boundary
of no return.

The bright voice of sunshine
might tonight be named Lucas
by he who finally left his own echo
burning in the cavernous night
with whateverhappens
never to be forgotten.

It's a painful joy,
this unexpected gratipropeller,
this maelstrom maker,
never stopping in the light
of all that never can be undone
in the after thought.

Poetry by Bob
Read 668 times
Written on 2006-11-24 at 23:27