My friend I miss
The presence
Of your coexistence
In this world.
O to float free in those other realms ;
Only your echoes remain reverberating sweetly.
Sometimes late at night
I quietly sink
and drown my brother
in the passion of your word
strumming.
Hemingway contemplates
light,
In a new found darkness.
He wonders when it will
End,
And asks Cohen:
“Do you know?”
“How was it when you left?”
Cohen answers
No – it was so, so,
It hadn’t been that dark
Since 1939,
But the light
Eventually will come.
And we may see ourselves again perhaps In ways,
we haven’t seen,
Since very long ago.
Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died
His family, and his lovers
by his side.
Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died.
The music and the words won’t be quite
so gravelly
deep.
Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died.
Won’t be long before Irving and Abraham
Are by his side.
Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died,
Discarded mask
And costume that he wore,
To slip behind a curtain.
Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died.
A village and a nation sighed.
Did you hear
That last
First
soft breath open:
Go by brooks love
Where fish stare,
Go by brooks love
I will pass there.
Faces of a Cohen
A life in The Word
A human
Condition;
Testament to
That crack in everything
That lets the light in.
#poem #poetry #micropoetry
Song of Andalusia
rolling over hills
and mountains
to Granada,
breaking light of
madrugada
first in Seville,
and among
the solitary palms
of Algeciras.
Moonlit gutteral cry
deep from
belly of
of Gypsy, Arab, Jew,
a slow arrival from
Cordoba and Cadiz,
a fusion casting Spain,
a song that revives
the sleeping dead,
resounding deep throughout
the useless times,
over plains and night.
Strains of exile, pain,
longing and disgrace
are peering out from black
and lovely eyes
of lover’s face.
Somewhere Lorca
Is lurking in the moist
and creeping soil
lost in his duende,
tasting the
sweetened sadness
of the deep song
and now
inside it.
It no longer needs
to be inside him,
except in written words
on the white
and spread out spaces.
Hands like graceful
birds are flying round the fire
In the forgotten places.
The hungered Gypsys and
Gitanos dance
and sing deep down
from the well,
like flowing water
around the burning flames,
Proud heels are beating
into dust
and flattened earth,
waking passions of the dead .
Guitarras strum
and
soundless claps of hands
burn deep Into the palms
of Moorish lovers arms,
lost In the embrace
of black duende.
From “Free Verse in Useless Times ” by PWChaltas
PWChaltas 