Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Nessum Dorma

Nessum dorma

Night brings its own blessed shadows, cloaking
The evening sky, blotting out the day’s sorrows
And promise of morning’s adventures. Night
Sinks into the grove, youth, sorely flit,
No longer my light, nor daily bliss,
My heart beats anxious,
Hope itself soars heavenward
Hoffnung schwingt sich himmelwärts.

Death awaits, none will rest, nessum dorma,
None will rest til love’s name revealed.
None shall sleep, my sweet, nor rest easy,
Nor close their eyes in drowsy stupor, none
Shall rest, until death takes your fair love
Murderously into hell’s gaping wound.

My sorrow night disguises, as time warps by,
Speeding through the heavens, with only moon’s
Pale ghost face laughing down.
Cats howl at her, severed-head moon,
Coyotes cry into the pitying night, scream,
He cried, scream into the abyss, scream and tear the heart from
The dying beast, sacrifice the living virgin,
Tear his heart from his living chest
Scream, and sorrow beckons.

Senescence bids, youth flits and is gone, in his
Wake left a hole in the universe, a void
That water will fill, smoothing the lake after
Cast stone brought ripples widening out.
Youth came to be worshipped, the priests bade
Your pleasure, but blood was not enough,
Naught can fill that vanity.
You must leave, as you have left, leave not
A trace on this cold, cold ground.
Mußt du einmal von mir gehn,
If you must leave me one day,
Believe, there is an afterlife
Glaub, es gibt ein auferstehn

High in the remotest mountain peaks monks isolate
Into meditative trance, snow melts to rivers below.
There the gods find solace, and below the people
Drink chill melted waters, running their veins as cold, cold blood.

Below, sacred valleys in burning deserts
Sacred tribal rights stained with blood,
Berdache cant in singsong manner,
Enchanted rites, offer their naked flesh to Spirit.
There we will go, buried in the sands of time,
Separately, painfully aware of how alone each
Soul is upon this rigid path. The gods seek
Vengeance for their protection, there is
Nothing to protect us from ourselves, wretched
Creatures, seeking their godlikeness.

Look into the deep dark face of night, the
Testa mozza grinning down on severed heads
Skewered on the gateposts outside the palace.
As none can answer the icy riddles, instead gave their
Lives in vain attempts at love.
Naught can induce Love the ice prince, secured
In his frigid tomb, His heart dead, as dead his suitors be.

Go now, silly child, with impudence run to inky blue night
Your tomb awaits, run, run faster for fear chases your
Heels and dogs your every step, curses your shallow beauty
And none escapes Death’s wrath. Beautiful Youth wanes
And Senescence beckons, between religion and fear
Go out and paint the stars.

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Geras and Hebe

Geras and Hebe

Youth flits across the silver screen, ageless timeless
Beauties defying Time and all that he has wrought.
Youth’s frozen features stare icily back, decades
Beyond the passing of those icons.

Youth, defiant of Geras, thinking arrogance a virtue.
Defies the ancient Gēras who glories all a man acquires.
Insouciant Hebe, defiant of Time, unyielding, unbending,
Rebellious of that patriarch of living things. Youth his folly,
Child of derision squanders precious moments.

Youth but a stranger, regaled in rags or finest silks,
Confusion reigns, hopes flag, Time withers.
Youth and Beauty worshipped by the masses, adored
Black and white images flicker across the movie screen,
Til age, unrepentant sinner, tears down the masque,
Replaced anew by yet another youth.

Age comes sometimes with wisdom’s grace, shouting
Promises of peace to the elderly guided by
Geras’ loving hand where senescence strove
A lifetime to prepare; the cruelest joke of all,
There is no solace in old age. Be it fraught with pain
And sharp memories of youthful vigor; looked upon with
Saddened eye to see another wasteful life. Youth’s vanity
Accursed, not know this is yet to come.

Between what lies buried in the flurry of survival and
The foggy swirling mass of memories long past, lies
The unanswerable: what becomes of me now
(For that fate is sealed) as Youth and I gaze now at
Wrinkled hands, sallow flesh, drooping ass, rheumy
Eyes, and weakened joints and cry, what is this curse,
And where did wasted Time go?

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