3 revised poems recently sent to a call: subject love

 Lisa Loves Bisa

Walking along the sand

at the shore

and you see someone has

scratched Lisa Loves Bisa;

you don’t wonder if

somehow the tide

created the message

or maybe a specie of

cute little crab

had nothing better to do—

no—you know

there was

a complex specificity

shinning through,

a whole narrative

of two people alive.

And when you walk through

the fields and groves

of captivating beauty,

sunlight hitting them so

in the moment—

all medicine and nourishment

of astonishing and divine

inscrutable pulchritude—

and consider it all as

recurring motifs of existence—

know you are part of a creation,

another mark in the universe

which goes on and on,

afloat upon

an ocean of love

made of starlight.

Triptych On Love

I

In a perfect world language and cadence

would be consciousness--a spaceship connecting us

to all the other suns;

music, prose, and verse, an aperture to universe;

art a paradox—free and locked in a box;

kids would say things wide-eyed,

figuring how to grow old and wise,

and love would be a hand out,

little understood and rarely refused.

II

To think of eternity is to imagine

time to live every life ever lived.

To think of God is to know free will, fate,

and seeking shelter should go on forever—

that vanity and the vanities

needn’t ever leave,

apart of a wheel making the world go round.

To look into the eyes of a long-lasting love,

this time or the next,

is to know of it.

III

I am here many times, spectacle to the young,

and the heart it sees

alienation is only a symptom—

just not ready to receive fruit from

what has passed to the past.

Until it’s easy for all to see

that we’re a drop in a sea,

and remember all we’ve wanted to learn,

you’ll never know just how much you’re loved.

Notions of You

If I saw your eyes so large and sharp,

I’d keep an eye open and hope like a kid

for the surprise—the scintillation coupled with

the firing of your smile,

turning the moment sterling

like a sudden ray of sun

over an ocean’s morning mind.

Though maybe you’d be blithe to mine;

and perhaps I’m too old and deep—

still I’d love to teach you mountains I’ve climbed

and revel in your interpretation

of such a union.

My imaginings would yet to comprehend

the core of your beauty,

and ways fraught with wandering would stop—

even a good movie or an

Impressionist exhibit

wouldn’t take my mind off you.

I would like to lie with you;

and look into your eyes;

to feel us together, neck-moist,

and to kiss your lips as best I can;

to smell your hair, wet with sweat,

wanting to do whatever you wanted.

And after, in settling repose,

where side by side we’d decide

what color particular numbers were,

or immediate steps to

best affect the world—finding

within this separateness the

sweetest of gifts: lover and friend.

Where growing to know intimacy

would make one wonder whether

life was meant for such pleasure;

I want to hear you whisper in my ear

so severely I feel like the second movement

to Beethoven’s Seventh: a solemn love tune—

not lonesome, though alone and longing.