Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The scent of blood oranges
being peeled from distant orange
blossoms of memory,
I recall the sweetness;
my babies' milk breath falling
asleep on my shoulder, as if
innocence could ever awaken
to expose itself naked in the sun,
I am inexorably bound;
the death rattles of my mother and
my father escaping
from the wasteland of their body,
slipping into the weeping arms of forever
passing over me with the blood of
innocence;

your hardening, my Love, exploring
our Gods with saint and sinner eyes and hands
to reach the holy ecstasy.

This is holy.

Men and women of righteousness
lifting the shadow of despair
in times of deceit when people of the
lie take away everything but the last feather
of hope, that is holy.
The sound of om as it passes through
the monastery, echoing in every stone walked upon,
that
is holy.
Far away mountains men and women have climbed
to bring heaven a little nearer, to speak of love
again and again against the tide that must always turn away
to be known, that is holy.

Do not ask me where the holy of holies is sung,
listen, just listen, my Beloved
and speak not this moment. You are here
and the erotic eyes of this night
casts off a dark veil, pales in the light.

Until I find a title to this poem,
I am yours.

~A

I hope you never find a title for it.

Thank you for the poem
I used to travell with Sylvia Somebody and St Anne of Sexton for lot of miles. I have not read them again for a long time. You reminded me how much I miss their voices.

Somewhere between "When Jesus Suckled, and the "Mad Girl's Love Song" I heard your poem.

Thank you very much for the poem

sorry this my second reply, I deleted the first with another user name. Doreen and judih tolerate these multiple user names if I confine them to my asylum. But every once in a while I loose myself and try to be clever.
the other reply was from gypsyjoker. did not want to confuse you.