2 poems by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus

Fire

 

for Tyler

 

The grass is whisperin'

the leaves are singin'

the sun smilin' in the sky,

is that too perfect a picture?

oh yeah, 'cause you, me and nothin' else are perfect,

screw perfection!

let's all take hands in a circle 'round,

the Solstice fire awaits our dance.

 

The snow's beguilin'

the wind seducin'

the moon shimmerin' above,

is that too perfect a picture?

oh yeah, 'cause you, me and nothin' else are perfect,

screw perfection!

let's all take hands in a circle 'round,

the Solstice fire awaits our dance.

 

Spring's acomin'

new life alurkin;

the smell of earth alive,

is that too perfect a picture?

hell, no - you, me and everyone else!

let's all hold hands in a circle 'round,

the Solstice fire awaits our dance,

let's all hold hands in a circle 'round,

the Solstice fire awaits our dance,

awaits - awaits our dance.

 

 Galaxy

… naked galaxy of pirouetting confusion

irradiating your hair threading open sorrow,

aorta of desire licking the wound and pleading for

the diamond of your glance,

and the street is no busier

than the journey of my veins

run amok,

wilderness moss steeped in the dew sweat

from your brocade creases

tracing my densities

not comprehending what you sing

at the midnight of my crossing,

bayou gnawing at my seams

knitted across your brow,

windows dancing in frost

between your foot and mine

drawn in flesh-curves aged in

a redolent, dripping moon weeping

what we cannot speak,

boat staggering across oceans of gems

dissolved in the tilted cadences

of our furnace hymns, yet

where the road

where tracks the sun?

a craven spider web of

craving cradling my mind,

butterfly unsteadily, slowly winging its arch,

my feet paralyzed in honey

crushed from the womb of a riddle

chanting of something else,

of more,

and still, where the road?

my face melting,

lips torturing and twisted by

wayward syllables,

decadence of my caverns sobbing to know you

in a serenade of essential fibre and fire

strung across the pained instrument

never ringing so deeply or disheviled...

... simmering, shivering in the lost galaxy of our eyes...

~ ~ ~

Von Glashaus was born in 1950 and developed an early interest in creative writing. He was Director of The Snapdragon Poets’ Society in Pueblo, Co., and now is Assistant Director of The Pueblo Poetry Project. He’s published a novel, poetry and a collection of all-original aphorisms. He also is a composer.