The Alterside
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Villanelle, or: Study of Terza Rima
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
East of sleep and dreams,
the dim coming times,
like a sea that brooks no means.
Carve’n dreamer fell,
hung like sweating leaves,
drip down the garden well.
The peddles feast and descend,
they walk a show and tell,
where the sand and sea have hardened.
Of these, and of the age,
I’m here to play the warden,
where bursting tears splay the cage.
And on a silent singing thread
we shadowed ‘cross the stage,
where sea-born fingers bled.
I stood in wait like marbled beast,
and woke here in my bed,
leaving dreams that wander east
and sink in salted ocean feast
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
East of sleep and dreams,
the dim coming times,
like a sea that brooks no means.
Carve’n dreamer fell,
hung like sweating leaves,
drip down the garden well.
The peddles feast and descend,
they walk a show and tell,
where the sand and sea have hardened.
Of these, and of the age,
I’m here to play the warden,
where bursting tears splay the cage.
And on a silent singing thread
we shadowed ‘cross the stage,
where sea-born fingers bled.
I stood in wait like marbled beast,
and woke here in my bed,
leaving dreams that wander east
and sink in salted ocean feast
Poetry
On The Bestial Floor
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
"On The Bestial Floor" is a new Book
of Poems and Haiku by Saij.
To Purchase Click Here
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
"On The Bestial Floor" is a new Book
of Poems and Haiku by Saij.
To Purchase Click Here
Study for a Portrait Of Art
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
I prefer to show two men fucking
I prefer to show buttons bursting from the breast,
to show the void that spreads across the face
like a shadow of tongues
washing out the white of the waves
that boards the ships, creaks like timber creaks, and
pours in the rain and bottle broken,
the rivers of blood pumping through my neck
bitten and dripping from the cheek
crush me naked feel the grind
I prefer to hang from a tree branch
drunk, I prefer to paint slices of lemon,
glasses stained with fingerprints, draining
I prefer to heap hills upon hills
and lay in the brides-bed,
that grassy mattress, and swim
in the dark sweat of the evening
I prefer to show two men fucking
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
I prefer to show two men fucking
I prefer to show buttons bursting from the breast,
to show the void that spreads across the face
like a shadow of tongues
washing out the white of the waves
that boards the ships, creaks like timber creaks, and
pours in the rain and bottle broken,
the rivers of blood pumping through my neck
bitten and dripping from the cheek
crush me naked feel the grind
I prefer to hang from a tree branch
drunk, I prefer to paint slices of lemon,
glasses stained with fingerprints, draining
I prefer to heap hills upon hills
and lay in the brides-bed,
that grassy mattress, and swim
in the dark sweat of the evening
I prefer to show two men fucking
Once Under Yellow Light
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
A Raccoon was on the lawn and I
asked the roses and lilies in the yard
to hold him down with out-stretched branches,
to wrap their thorns around the house, like a barracks
or a prison. She was like a beast whose hoofs
taunt men on the side walk, her breath
in the cold, warmed the air from double barreled
nose, head swaying back and forth, grunted
at pavement walkers, her front legs rising
up to eight feet—more. I mow my lawn
every Saturday. I groom my plants and dig
ponds and go for the “natural” look. I edge
my paved side walk to prevent the grass from
intruding. I wonder if the raccoon is aware that
it is on my lawn, my side walk, swaying like a white
polar bear, sniffing at my shiny trash, looking
for rotten smells. Peering like a thief through
windows in my kitchen walls, built by men
hired by contractors to infiltrate the land, like
navy seals of the building industry, killing in
the name of society and cement, shipping
grass and ground cover by truck to fill the spaces.
And Raccoons, not quite aware of rules,
still migrate onto my lawn, and sniff for dog
treats and cigarette butts left by party people and friends.
They walk on the fence and interest my cats – what
are those silly animals with black eyes – interest my
dog more. I tried photographing them to prove
how destructive they are, but never catch them in
the act, only smiling pictures of raccoons on my lawn.
(c) Copyright 2007, Saij
A Raccoon was on the lawn and I
asked the roses and lilies in the yard
to hold him down with out-stretched branches,
to wrap their thorns around the house, like a barracks
or a prison. She was like a beast whose hoofs
taunt men on the side walk, her breath
in the cold, warmed the air from double barreled
nose, head swaying back and forth, grunted
at pavement walkers, her front legs rising
up to eight feet—more. I mow my lawn
every Saturday. I groom my plants and dig
ponds and go for the “natural” look. I edge
my paved side walk to prevent the grass from
intruding. I wonder if the raccoon is aware that
it is on my lawn, my side walk, swaying like a white
polar bear, sniffing at my shiny trash, looking
for rotten smells. Peering like a thief through
windows in my kitchen walls, built by men
hired by contractors to infiltrate the land, like
navy seals of the building industry, killing in
the name of society and cement, shipping
grass and ground cover by truck to fill the spaces.
And Raccoons, not quite aware of rules,
still migrate onto my lawn, and sniff for dog
treats and cigarette butts left by party people and friends.
They walk on the fence and interest my cats – what
are those silly animals with black eyes – interest my
dog more. I tried photographing them to prove
how destructive they are, but never catch them in
the act, only smiling pictures of raccoons on my lawn.