So long, Mister Leonard

“It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.”

Jack Gilbert “Horses at Midnight Without a Moon”

What will astonish you first is the singing,

the singing – no less than a Godsend, a seed,
a remedy or a boat,

a flood of crossings, a sacrifice
first hand
like a dusty garbage-bin:

an emptiness so hollow
the very fabric of it –
dead to the world.

I guess this is what is called

being blissfully lost.

Like when the morning rises
and still sleepy,
we feel the tinge of joy
at the possibilities;

our nightly quarters receding
into the spaces
where memories sleep,

the unrequited prayers,
sedated for a while.

The moment,
the here,
the now.


You are not God

You are not God,
you are the English I dare not use –
the humble whisper,
my frustration of the limits

I find in the fading light
of the afternoon,
just before secret words
are spoken:

You are not God,
you don’t speak.
You take it.

Published in Eunoia Review