Empty

This emptiness has a

hopeless poet, at loss.

While words spring in bounty,

What just are words without a string?

Fragile beads pour from empty cups,

hungry to fall on the

tongue of the one wanting to read.

From empty cups, one can drink.

In emptiness, ironically,

no space there is

for letters even.

Let alone words meaningless.

For the first time,

A full bowl of glass beads there is.

But the thread itself,

has fled into emptiness.

Fire

In quietness, 

I am thorough blue.

Violent crimson, 

in muddled chaos.

My resolve to touch Him, 

sets off a trail.

Ironically, accompanied by

His gentle glow.

I sprint relentlessly,

unapologetic, mad, 

like wildfire 

you’ve only heard of.

Too hot it may be, 

trust me, 

to bar me with 

your bare hands now.

Moon

Ignorant was I,

of your ways.

Unaware of your forms,

unconscious of your poise,

I looked in the clouds,

to see much later, a fine face.

On days you are absolute,

From you, I’ll drink wild.

You play within me, us

and the ocean.

From now,

Your tides, I’ll gladly ride.

Like leaves from a darling book,

you turn every night.

Invariably now my hungry eyes,

hunt for your regal curves in the sky.