Passing Time
Passing Time
To Peter Kostos:
Thank you for the darkness
Thank you for the light
At eventide, we walk arm and arm, you and I
Across the strand, as twilight descends as the
Stars oversprinkle the sky, fireflies blinking
In the deepening canopy of night. The incoming tide
Swirls round our feet white bubbling foam rushing
Round our toes. The ebb of sea erasing our footsteps,
Vanquishing our Presence, we were never there. The
Outgoing tide Wipes away our having been as the
Hourglass counts the hours of our lives, relentless
Cruel grains of sand dropping through the funnel counts
Our days and hours relentlessly counting.
I wished that I were young again, that we might travel
This road through time, you in your world, and I in mine.
You are the moon, rising now in beauty, I The setting sun,
Fulfilling now my journey. I wished that I were young again,
Full of lover’s Passion, filled with simple grace. Yet Death
Surrounds me, my boon and constant companion
Fair-weather friend.
Death, sups with us, he breaks our bread, we drink dry
His proffered chalice, the pungent Potion rife with toxic magic.
Death’s attenuated body, dressed in somber black, or blue
As ushers in a funeral parlor always do. His bony hands
With fingers waxen tapers; His cold cold hands leave burning
Traces upon The faces gently he touches. His luminous face
Is beautiful, his huge black and staring eyes Saucers rimming
With tears in that exquisite pale countenance. Icy lips proffer
His name, Death’s kiss, lingers on those he beckons
Upon their sweet lips.
He wraps us in his mantle, dazed as we are, drunk of his
Narcotic potion sipped from his silver chalice, he bids
Us, as with his hand raises us up above the ground. We
Pass through valleys verdant and lush, hushed in the
Dimming twilight spreading, o’re mountain peaks with
Crystalized jeweled caps shimmering from as Diana’s
Enchanted silvery light. Soaring we rise above the
Oceans’ might roars, quickly plunging deep beneath
Silvery lakes breaking their surface without a ripple.
At last weary and complete, he drops us to our beds,
You in yours and I in mine. We sleep til Morning’s light
Comes a’calling, waking from Morpheus’s drugged slumber,
Rested well, our body’s aches rejuvenated,
The mind’s cares erased.
We return to the living, you to your world, and I to mine.
You in the bloom of youth, your future spread before.
I to mine where Death’s presence lingers.
You go unto your world, in joy I pray; with sadness I to mine.
Yours a happy future, a well-trod path laid at your feet,
Mine an encroaching reminder my descent to hell is sweet.
Absolution
Absolution
Be there God and deities or no gods a’tall,
Be there sin or simple our imperfect human nature,
Be there the devil and hell or all manner of evil
Within our nature, I know not. That it is so, I believe.
To be free, to be free within, is to forgive,
To find absolution without the aid of Jesus or Adonai,
To find the ability to make peace, with my past,
With my present, knowing I fall short,
Very short, of my destiny.
To be free, to live in the light, whatever that be
For each, is to truly evolve into absolution, not
With the aid of prayers and priests, but within.
Within and whatever that god we each cling to,
Even Doubting Thomases as I who do not believe a’tall.
To be free, to find absolution is a painful journey,
To relive each mortal sin or earthly error, to relive
And know that the past can no longer haunt me,
Though it tries its constant best.
Those we’ve harmed have forgiven us, or not,
Nor does it matter, only that we find absolution
Within and free ourselves.
Stargazers
The lilies stink of death, the stench of
decay, the cloying smell of rotting love.
Stargazers, worshippers of love; love is gone,
gone away, day by day.
Death holds no secrets, no fears, I am slowly dying:
weeks, or months, perhaps a year.
I cannot bear the sight or sound of lilies.
do not put them on my grave.
When love is gone, taking hope it’s prisoner,
defiant abandonment.
I am left to follow the dying flowers.
Each day the virus gains hold within me,
with my knowing.
I have ceased medications,
naught impedes its steady stronghold.
What were their names? Peter, Paul, Matthew.
those were yesterday. My once upon a time, skipper.
Their names haunt me like debted bank accounts,
overdrawn.
Their names accuse me, accuse me.
They are gone, one to death, the others silent.
And as the lilies fade,
my time to join him approaches.
Arabian jasmine surrounds my gardens, their
heady perfume wafts of childhood memories,
large and fragrant blooming outside my bedroom
window.
I create a space around me, reminding
me of that time, what should have been
innocence, now the slow meandering road
to encroaching death.
In Memorium
He died young, an adolescent, never knowing
Intimacy, joyous rapture entwined in another man’s
Arms, pounding, thrusting hardness, bodies to
Ecstatic climax, for kisses on waking, caress
For sleep, I love you at dawn, I love you at
Twilight.
He never knew that love, nor any other,
He died young, died without intimacy, love shared by
Two young men, though they mourned him
Made memory over him, in time, memory faded.
The old man lives through the smiles of younger
Men, watches as they dance and glide across
The rugged terrain of intimate love, sexual prowess,
He silently weeps, le lacrime degli angeli,
His longing past tense, his time spent, asking
Was that intimacy those thousand grunting acts,
Clinging kisses, arms and thighs banging together
Without an I love you, parting, was that intimacy
Or a hope still renewed daily that though gone,
Love will find him, lost in deep reverie, love
Will find him?
The boy died young, the old man weeps for a joy
That boy will have never know, with teary eyes
Misting in the fading night, wonders did he either?
Where have I been?
It has been some 3 months since I’ve written poetry. I don’t know why, the thoughts, the images, the sounds stopped coming. I’m still around…I guess waiting…
christopher
I’ve never seen this art, and its stunning. Quiet and so erotic with a strange sense of purity. Thanks for sharig.
I’ve been enjoying the three-part documentary How To Be Bohemian currently airing on the BBC. Episode two focused on the sexual pioneering of the Bloomsbury set in which homosexuality and bisexuality were, as we know, de rigeur.
Loving the artwork of Duncan Grant and fascinated by his personal life:
Duncan’s early affairs were exclusively homosexual. These included his cousin, the writer Lytton Strachey, the future politician Arthur Hobhouse and the economist John Maynard Keynes, who at one time considered Grant the love of his life. Through Strachey, Grant became involved in the Bloomsbury Group, where he made many such great friends including Vanessa Bell. He would eventually live with Vanessa Bell, who though she was a married woman fell deeply in love with him, and one night succeeded in seducing him; Vanessa very much wanted a child by Duncan, and became pregnant in the spring of 1918. Although it is…
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Duncan Grant – Bloomsbury Set
In Memorium
In Memorium
He died young, an adolescent, never knowing
intimacy, joyous rapture entwined in another man’s
arms, pounding, thrusting hardness, bodies to
ecstatic climax, for kisses on waking, caress
for sleep, I love you at dawn, I love you at
twilight.
He never knew that love, nor any other, he died
young, died without intimacy, love shared by
two young men, though they mourned him
made memory over him, in time, memory faded.
The old man lives through the smiles of younger
men, watches as they dance and glide across
the rugged terrain of intimate love, sexual prowess,
he silently weeps, le lacrime degli angeli,
his longiing past tense, his time spent, asking
was that intimacy those thounsand gruntin acts,
clining kisses, arms and thighs banging together
without an i love you, parting, was that intimacy
or a hope still renewed daily that though gone,
love will find him, lost in deep reverie, love
will find him?
The boy died young, the old man weeps for a joy
that boy will have never know, with teary eyes
misting in the fading night, wonders did he either?
Will read….
I got naughty with the wet boy.
Feel lucky to live out my fantasy.
Unfortunately fantasy should remain so.
Beard.
Bad Breath.
Too thin.
No rubbers.
Reminded me of Man About Town by Mark Merlis. Every gay man should read. Brilliant. Intelligent. Funny. Sad.
XQUIZIT 