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Poems
         of
    Love       and Time 

For You

 

The moon spreads its light

over where her breath sounds,

between this bed, the still night

and the country of her dreams.

 

And all creation it seems

(like a mother to her breasts)

has drawn the night around, offering

forever this warmth between.

 

But I am moved by another

more distant ground, into which

these scenes will soon dissipate

and rearrange, and like our love

 

no longer appear or be exchanged.

And where this sheet spreads

luminous over our limbs entwined,

a garden may grow, a yard, echo

 

with a child’s delight, or tree

in some distant generation, sway

beneath a vault of moonlight. Still,

how perfect this moment, how serene.

Something

 

(a sonnet in the old style)

 

Something rusts within the springs of this frame,

carving the brow’s time into deeper grain.

Something plagues the cures of a healing flame,

following hay-days with sorrow and pain.

Something deep in the joy of life devours,

concealed like a worm in an apple core.

Something that sucks the blossom from flowers,

spoiling perfection with a fatal flaw.

Something experienced beyond knowing,

that knowledge calls doubt, and ignorance, sin.

Something that decays within our growing,

whose door the deepest wisdom cannot spring:

that condemns all beauty to tragic form,

and for dying's sake - leads us to be born!

The Certainty of Knowing

 

I'd like the certainty

of knowing there's something

in the universe that

reaches out for me.

I'd like that comfort.

I'd like to know

that I'm not going to

fade into the darkness;

that my life is not

just a cosmic accident,

recycled matter, fate.

 

Where then, is the source of my tears?

Of all those journeys taken

that give substance

to my knowledge

and wisdom to my fears?

If the sky
is just an eternity
of space and stars,

this life a sentence,
and this body,

a prison without bars?

I look out upon the world,
feel my skin,
my blood coursing,

the light in my eyes,
my breath, out and in.

Watch With  Me Now


"It's the great mystery of human life that old

grief passes gradually into quiet tender joy."

 

-- Dostoyevsky (The Brothers Karamazov, 1880)

 

I have loved few and have been loved

by less: understood, misunderstood,

cursed and blessed. I have watched

the ghosts of friends and family

withdraw quietly into their last breath.

What is the source of the light in our eyes?

The meaning of a kiss? These eulogies?

The tears and laughter that animate

the hours between birth and death?

 

Watch with me now, in this place

of affection and disaffection, where all

that's spoken is said: of a lover's vow,

broken or kept, a father's guiding hand

and the gentleness of a mother's caress.

Watch with me now, for tomorrow we

will be one with everything, meaning less.

So, let us together or apart, be joyful,

and with wisdom, neither curse nor bless.

al Title

Minimal Title

The Road

 

The road stands out of time

and is what we all travel on

towards where we are going

from where we have been.

The road offers no guarantees,

allowing us to travel free,

not knowing how far we have

to go before we reach our stop.

The road winds and unwinds

around our bones and is marked

with significant milestones.

Things are born on the road,

are wounded, heal and die,

grow old, change hands,

are bought, sold, coveted,

discarded or given away.

And some, no matter how far

they travel are dissatisfied with

where they are and what is,

desiring what might have been.

Others would like to stand

forever in a beautiful place.

‘If only,’ they sigh, ‘ if only.’

And the road takes them

forward as they move back.

Others, filled with passion,

purpose and sensitivity, embrace

the new, and when it’s time

to go, leave with sadness

and an affectionate – adieu!

Poem in the Eye of Eternity

 

Subtle as a chiffon veil,

luscious as a ripened peach.

Sad as moonlight on a gravestone,

 

wild and groping as a lover’s kiss.

Enamoured against time’s erosion,

like music, like a marble obelisk.

 

Evoking a quiver of inspiration

or a silent swell of tears.

On a beach or by a stream,

 

in a hundred or ten thousand years.

Half-human, half-divine, passing through

her heart, like a breeze through a wind chime.

© 2021 Eugene Alexander Donnini