Blackest ink, the color of my love, Has carved the snowy footsteps in the night; Compelled to venture where the land grows rough And wrapped in breathlessness like candlelight, Composing notes you may find good enough. Be carved in snowy footsteps of the night And melting snow. With ink as…
Every poet's forced to cease Where stopped by language limits, And wrestle with thoughts that tease; Stuff too much meaning in it. postscript For day 14 of The tanaga. Originally a Filipino form, though I wasn't sure if you were supposed to have a certain number…
One sonnet from the hands that raise, alive One syllable, one word, one turn of phrase Like rolling waves, the moments, they arrive-- Like light and life crescendoed on for days. So strike, composer, notes, and wave your hand Through music in the air. And raise your eyes You dancers…