blank page - silly stage?

blank page - silly stage,

peter peter, paper eater

long time running

and no one to great him

whispering out his soul

in long pieces

coming, and always coming

the news plays across

in empty rhyme on a

radios music time

a songster in poet torn

took his life away

leaving his folk guitar

to stand alone

heís quiet as he remembers where to

feel through a song, where maybe

too

many people - almost remember

with fingernails tearing into skin

as his pen yearns to

continue or begin

blank page - silly stage

in i,

to find

a quiet music

reeling out death across death,

and all the rest

till it seems there is nothing left

to guess

just lingering on the edge

of many nothings ever too slow to

come to rest

and not even the children

growing old,

seem to remember to bleed for the sky

and so!

why do i

,

yes -

and so,

why do i !

blank page - silly stage?

-jude

 

 

 

just free command

lie down close to me,

and whisper yourself

into me, into sleep

soft and deep

touching quiet

standing rooms away

and so close to see -

there are flowers draped across

your feet

while graying concrete walls

mark only empty defeat

there is morning in your sleep

blues play on a page

of wind

and somewhere within

your waking lies in wait

always ready to begin

birth on the edge of sorrow

sunlight and tomorrow

and i love you across midnight

in all its eternal quiet.

it is just the mid of day

and nothing

wants for to say

but to feel,

those silver lines who

mark your shadow in time

/ it is dusk and dreams hold still

autumn on change as color

dress your birth

onto fingers never quite ready

to retreat

here within the naked flesh

of my palmís hand -

in free command,

in free command...

-jude

 

 

 

a window my fingers struggle to open

in wind glass shattering

through sleep echoes - drifting long

past

the moment of waking

my eyes opening

and seeing - yet where,

staring into cracked concrete walls

with autumn, a sweet smell

kneeling itís silent eyes

just outside a window sill

with wood rattling glass

so close to

a wherever, i try to lie in rest,

to blowout, myself away

all in pieces

and nowhere left to stay

or wind play

and no tears are around

to say good-bye

,

sky cast over in gray

a dry wood coffin held still,

between two ever ancient stained

pillars, stone framed

and my soul, dripping

as cold water

into the wooden sides

while i ride within them all

and everywhere is to go

no place for sleep, anymore

no place left to drift away

for my soul wonít stop paying

whatever itís price is to burn

eternally in turn

i stand, naked

cold skin facing a morning

much too early, to face out

and alone

a window my fingers struggle to open

;

to open, just to open?

or, in my own blood

dripping onto a wood carved floor

what for, more!

-jude

 

 

 

almost winter

just an almost winter, past morning

in day

trees growing their nakedness

as if to please all the soft

human calls of death

or even a momentary rest

in open jest

your back leaning against a rock

and, through eyes

tiredness forgotten,

too suddenly early

for surprise -

a sun to the side of your vision

picturing a loose wall of glare

to a lost stare into wind

and the hard tops of trees

just for a moment

in all

at ease -

,

but only if you please.

- jude

 

 

 

through a broken flood of tears

i donít think i quite

noticed your eyes - how loosely deep

back within, somewhere there

out on the open of a

clutching fist

someone mentioned you once,

just in passing to me, back when

there was a you, i had never, yet met

and how tall they thought you were

for a woman -

and yet

back when there was something to

cry for and through a broken

flood of tears,

in a picture no one dared to take

of you

i just noticed on a passing glance,

that in the very corners

of your mouth - a smile

maybe just for no one

and all the no ones ever to reflect

out through your eyes

and i was turned around,

just to touch

in what of this strange belief

or vague relief

to

or, to find your

mouth salted, wet and somewhat too

strained -

a pained try with ice too at rest

on the worn and

hardened tips of

your fingers - once stolen so easily

how long ago

or so -

a wind shattered sunlight across

your reflection in still water

on a not quite naked

 

autumn in autumn

mid-day -

you stood the mirror tall

with youth breaking off the

corners of your eyes

for a man growing

too fast and too young,

reaching for a moment

, and no command

to just touch your fingers easily

into his hand

while sand, blew unseen

through the ever breaks

of blackened gray and giant rocks

;

through the ever breaks

of blackened gray and giant rocks...

- jude

 

 

 

years of drying blood

sometimes i almost wish

i had

a name - for this ever

flood of nothingness

who invades

always

just to the edges of such a soul

on where i am

those millions of faces

crashing out of dirt and concrete

reaching through their

dry tongues,

and their voiceless songs

scratching against the corners

of wood carved windows

just empty echoes

playing forever back upon themselves

i notice someone

young and almost

lying in a new york city gutter

and almost dead

with a nod of the head,

and a phone to the police

my legs just walk away

caring so little

as i dream of tears which crystallize

and shatter in a dry pool

of blood -

almost upon this dead manís?

head

just nothing said

or a small piece of a poem

written, late at night

and alone - someday

years of drying blood

flaking from the cracks

in the skin

of all those crawling

faces

with no traces leaving trails

or ever silence -

with no traces leaving trails

or even silence -

- jude

 

 

 

chinese silk and dragonflies!

watching - drifting slowly away

as i listen,

into her eyes on the edge of a

shine unseen - she doesnít seem

to see, just what it means.

edges so colorless in a long time wait

of which only youth on a dream can

relate -

crystal lies and dreams unspoken

are tokens, cold in steel

hard at rest deep in the pocket

of carved slacks - whoís color is

worn too easily

in all that is wrought from

a woman - never quite naked

enough for the child

to die on where the earth

blows itís sands into the ever winds.

just upstairs, on a reflection

of rain and flesh and a window glass

dream -

no screams of birth quite held

a child renamed a child -

while only her arms ,

as a woman reached for more

and memory marks

those rain drop illusions who

stay -

did he leave with something to say

quietly, so quietly

backing away -

,

yesterday - always a mirror and

yesterday gone -

suddenly in woman - and sheís never

quite turned around

soft in tries , soft in tries

her hands drifting only on the

stage of music

 

turning out from a phonograph near by,

her eyes holding sight forever closely

whisperless sighs never speak

and points in ink across paper white

in all that they might,

draw -

circles,

all the only circles.

a woman dies

where a child believes

born

and too much of nothing is torn,

soft in beauty,

is a woman in youth upon a stage

while a cold steel wind plays

lines behind her eyes

never quite reaching

eyes carved too fine,

to feel -

but what these walls name in real

- - -

where have all the elusive dragonflies

drifted to...

so, longed-haired poet

carving empty phrases

wonders

as he wanders those ever rock walls!

- jude

 

 

 

 

as elusive as is the name of death

cry to the wind and

morning

slowly through a long night

blind windows watch the

reflections of somewhere beyond

a cityís all angled

walls

ice feels on the sides of

my bed - and sleepless

i watch a wandering of shadows

as vague lines,

on the mind of black

i scream to throw my body

naked through glass and into that

all throbbing sound of wind, far

out of whatever waiting time holds

me

out to be torn

across this winds tomorrow where

no tomorrow

exists -

cigarette smoke plays the air,

out from my lips

to rise across

the cold keys of

a typewriter - all unseen

what do i mean,

what do i mean,

in a night growing late

i remain

raging for a care

i canít quite name

as elusive as is the

name of death -

and what is all the

rest, lying there in the palm

of my hand -

so far away

touching so far away

is it a city of ice and concrete,

thickening close around my

feet -

which holds as ever glass

which holds as ever glass.

- jude

 

 

 

ice cold - a turn of forever

no ice, covering to believe in

to see in

only hard cold winds and/

naked trees

a woman clothed in sweet blood red,

wishing to be naked

somewhere a child again

in form as clouds leaning toward

the sky

tying strings of color drawn

white walls

and cracked plaster holding still

her ever mating calls

her hands as white as snow ash

gripping ever lightly,

a cross across her breasts

dusk in shadows

my fingers adrift in between

always knowing, just what do they

mean,

someone within them lies not quite

still, held by the

free form of a poem

just written

always just written

and, the silence

as a void torn about my soul

ties rage - as glass thin between

myself and a world

i watch my tears of freedom

dance so fine,

and so alone

a stage such as sound

open through the palm of

my hand

liquid in the blood of her

laughing tears

held to form by the ties of

years in touch

such is - a ballerina holds

back the name - but still not

 

her dance -

sweetly fine / an aging time

in liquid glass between,

skin and rage,

just a poem

blown,

from my hand

is the wind -

ice cold a turning of forever

touching nothing

am i?

- jude

 

 

 

sweet easy river / off a morning rain

sweet easy river

off a morning rain

a red black try

just sweeping away the

water

as it moves along itís way

illusion - nameless

soundless shores

where fingerprints are never found

and death never stands itís ground

wings out free - does that

seagull - believe in my

without my questions to be

naked winter you bite as ice

and yet hold to oneís mind

so open / in warm

illusion - nameless,

gameless, i watch in slow clear

wind

before a never white sky

trying so hard

before never a sigh,

iím counting the

rain, as days

gone beyond a window

open - to a graying

world

so far below

and death on a

river shore

soundless for there

is nothing more

but quiet ever and rain,

illusion -

or i,

sweet, telling myself dreams

who have

and yet to die

easily below the illusion still

of this nameless river

itís name washed from me

by a quiet rain,

and / a morning pain

in winter,

ice free, naked and i...

- jude

 

 

 

no time to sing the blues nearby...

quietly my voice

whispering crystal years - clear as

shattered eyes

reaching through the crevices of my

skull

to pick into a silent memory

on wood worn sails

of death

disallowing the rest one seeks

from

those endless seas of broken and screaming

grass

and because everything does

just nothing lasts

my palms are empty

open to the frozen winds

raging janurary through new york city

the blues are an ice rhyme

game

who floats across oneís eyes

but - leaves itís moments

no longer still, to stain

it is my eyes who can not

come to believe in these frozen winds

as unseen - they lean a long time

into death

shelves and shelves of books

all written by dead

and dying men

walk their torn pages too quietly

around me

and maybe none of them,

never quite

really wanting to be

;

or is it me

cast into a frozen dream

hard against a still wind

with no trees to

sing the blues nearby,

- jude

 

 

 

just eyes nowhere trying

dark now - in dark now

like gray frozen winds

whispering across long

dirt graves of death in black

with nothing given and /

nothing taken back

eyes drift endlessly

down along empty subway tracks

and their windless tunnels

mid-day stands as midnight

where the lines of shadows broken

are the only light -

wound me up tight on a paint chipped

wooden bench

seeming to wait

a whole world appears late

but nothing is said

iím alive

iím dead,

but nothing is said

tomorrow might you

never come

writing on yellow walls

as subway halls are only

names ignoring the passage

of any thoughts standing

nowhere nearby,

what reflections on concrete

found under a street-lamp

forgets that might

you have nothing

either to say

mid-point between

watching a manhatten

rain

rage down across an empty

sky

with eyes nowhere trying

just eyes nowhere trying .

- jude

 

 

 

a lone flame adrift in fire

your eyes - when they donít

speak

quiet seeks long into

the sharp edges of my fingers

i tear into all the

elusive lines of a

two week old wind

i scream with nowhere

to go

and your eyes close

into me

sweet water and a still

dream

i back away from mornings

into the whispers

of your feel

something tired lies

easily awake with you through

ever long nights

where lights are but shadows

of thought

how strangely you

belong - with your slow

walk

light breaking along the

stage - wooden pages,

of my soul

black ink on a blank page

a red candle and /

a lone flame, adrift in fire

words - live wooden words spoken

as blood ink - in a water scream

i am a free poem -

torn creation,

still into the shadows of a wind

and something begins still,

for alone am i

with you -

;

for alone with you

am i...

- jude

 

 

 

complete intrusion

in the air, ice takes in the lines

of a winterís wind

i donít ask,

anyone anything anymore

i breath crystallized air

with each fogged breath

feeling too clean / too good

what i have to say,

i donít say

anymore,

it rains only snow

in sharp edged flakes

and it seems, too often now

it seems

nothing quite takes me away

anymore -

,

i pace worn wooden floors

never leaving a mark

coming to face empty doorways

or / painted concrete walls

passing windows - high above a

city light

as a shadow - featureless

and movement unformed

backed against a mirror of

ice

and never twice,

no never twice

nothing shatters

as my fist flies in empty

seemingly empty rage

a poet without a stage

a left over hippie

my fingernails carving

something more then just dreams

into long sheets of

ice

while white falls as illusion -

 

complete intrusion

long hair and/ pages of

something more then just

poetry -

"poe knew"

itís the season of the warlock

a witch unnamed

complete intrusion,

i watch their fingers scrape

in the gutters - for pennies

and nothing more

and only crystal rain falls

and nothing left to say

but to empty pages

crystal flakes down upon

my floor

an enraged rhyme

and my fingers are forced from

within,

itís the season of the warlock

complete intrusion

and never more

/ unnamed ever-more!

-jude

 

 

 

sweet tries

sweet tries;

and inside she hides alongside,

while something dies

a broken feather

lies alone

in a closed and empty

cage

a page blows

open in the wind

water stained

or an ice domain

and she reads

the broken lines inside

the turn of a black candle fire

her eyes tire

while still she wanders

the voids between

finds,

sleepless never dreamless nights

in full color

and shadow lights

her nakedness

close upon itself

rocks

water slow on the floor of

somewhere

never quite known

night and her shadow moves

too still within a

closed glass window

whispering

in,

sweet tries -

-jude

 

 

 

distance drifts the air, sweet

sunrise still,

and early mornings

distance drifts in the air

sweet,

dwelling in a rhyme

soft and timeless

memories are all the dreams

unheard, like silent verse

across ancient words

worded never to stay

it is earlier then tomorrow,

and i say nothing to the sun

and an early wind,

there is a light taste of

mountain water in turn

an urn displayed proudly

upon its own

aging shelf

in wood

her hair blows freely out

to cross, just touching

my fingertips

and no tries

while a dustless glacier dries

to know her there

skating

silver reflections across her

eyes -

a sweet taste, and early mornings

in distance drifts the air,

and nowhere is a moment

before tomorrow,

a taste of sweet freedom

stirs the soul

for black-top concrete

and eternal broken lines in

white

a sweet taste, and early mornings

distance drifts the air,

- jude

 

 

 

a touch of ice

a touch of ice

in water -

crosses down the faces of

rocks - locked into the

tries of a sun rising,

my back rests

against a tree - simply,

while my legs are

running - still for more

once again no more -

there is a smile of

warmth edging in the wind,

turning slow -

and no one seems to

know -

,

laughter in my face,

from where, anywhere i go

a mirror stands in place

what tears in time, mark

the lines of my face,

a touch of ice -

in water,

- jude

 

 

 

i walk the street...

walking the streets,

the wind whistling in bare naked

screams

past my ears

while, where my eyes

trying not to see

seeing

fleeing across wide open

black-top concrete,

steel in race against steel,

fingers jumping

trading clean bricks

for cleaner ones

words replacing words,

faces fixed in eternal

repair

despair crying long in sighs

a man stands

behind a crowd,

carefully placing sticks

all pointing away

from a brick wall,

all facing towards

a brick wall

i hear a voice

but no one doesnít

quite call - long on

a windless fall

i walk the street

waiting for the

wind to ...

long corridors,

lined by the echoes

of long windless falls -

,

i walk the street

waiting for the

wind to...

- jude

 

 

 

on a course of nowhere down

early, early spring

morning and sweet moist earth,

concrete visions hold

a long time gone

in what moment

here, and how easily

water runs adrift on water,

itís a wind rhyme in name

crystal reflections of a cloud stained

sun

hold to my eyes

in a wind almost cool,

whispers with my soul

for anywhere to go

my shadow

walks an elusive drift

across white broken rocks,

dreamt tall

and i fall - on a course of

nowhere down -

what ancient trees stand

nameless

behind easy voices

somewhere relating without

a thought

and for a moment

the sun turns my shadow

solid - between

all the human traces,

and tired faces,

born

on a sleepless nights

somewhere before

care for nothing, in care

as sand - wind torn

upon my fingertips - is worn in

easy sips -

;

all till i fall - on a course

of nowhere down.

-jude

 

 

 

just an old song playing on the radio

just an old song

playing on the radio

a feeling never remembered

burns

in, somewhere behind my eyes

and i am called to revisit

somewhere ancient death tries

and

how ill-rational,

where only tomorrow knows

what the reason tries

tries

gentle eyes peer outward

from these tears

rolling down across the

edges of my fingers

a sip of wine from

a dirty glass

and my head aches,

just to tired to say;

hello or goodbye

to a face unmet

and yet

and always yet

a wrinkled bed,

with dry sheets

lies opposite a brick

wall

of cracked concrete streets,

itís a slow sky today

a wind hides in itís own quiet

and my ears are pierced by

the sound

my feet are cut by the ground

but i just look away

,

just an old song, on the radio

just a poem written on

used bed sheets

as the blood retreats,

i just look away.

- jude

 

 

 

i turn just water

how easy no one ever

quite dares to say good-bye,

a run of eyes

passing for darkness

across the shelves of

my memory,

how often does no one

stand without tries

love is the need of tears

on the smiles of eyes

which stare; held deeply

on the eternal fingers of my

soul -

always somewhere to go

with those close in time faces

in fear -

to let go of the distance in which

they can only find me.

a tear lies on a smile

across nowhere

never say goodbye, woman gone

just deserve all the care

youíve offered, free to the wind

till,

youíre free no more

and because a woman

never dared cry her tears for me

i turn just water,

a pure and wordless stare

;

i turn just water,

a pure and wordless care -

- jude

 

 

 

walking dogs down faceless ways

do they really see me,

as i stand on a broken

concrete corner

pencil marking dreams

in a covered back pocket

my eyes turning in a rage

fighting onto an illusion stage

set curtainless before me

my lips sip off a wind

blowing through the hill worn turns

of a city park - still

distance in silence

across a longer street

someone walking

those dirt paths

alone

meeting with no one,

i yearn to speak to no one

yet i constantly seek something

solid weighing onto the skin

of my fingers

something which lingers.

walking days down faceless ways

i cry my lips a song,

long ago

walking days down faceless ways

i sip the wind to belong,

long ago.

long ago in a closed back pocket

a torn piece of paper

itís penciled words worn,

spoke to no one

and cared even less

just on a broken concrete corner

to face nowhere

waiting for no reason

to go - long ago.

- jude

 

 

 

where mirrors are black

in silence and decision

with no where to go

i watch an empty river bed

flow

with a face in rock

calling out to me

to stop.

with nowhere to go

she walks her tears

frozen unseen on the

soles of her feet

across a dream unkempt

turning against the stall

of river streets

holes in concrete mark defeat

but for where she stands no longer

her hair in movement

across her eyes - with tries at rest

down the worn pit

of an

empty back pocket

for the corners of my eyes, surprise.

or where the river might flow

wind pleases as it

seizes my fingers without movement

unstill

i sit on a rock still surrounded by water

my eyes have forgotten

these tears i cry for women,

a woman

i match my stillness in patterns

to match a reflection light

on water, wind bending moonlight

till morning is night

where the sight of her frozen eyes

is alight

in patterns

whose nature is death in breath

across change

where mirrors are black

and nothing returns

,

where only the wind burns

except tomorrow.

- jude

 

 

 

names unlost

read a poem

or so they call it

a man

saw himself as a child,

back in a frightening, almost

and magic world

those recurring museum doors

ever tall in their reach

were silent keys to - what tired

illusion or so

looking into his fatherís face

feeling what in distance and alone

an image still adrift and

speaking within his soul

verse after longer verse

between child and man

memory stirs life

names unlost Ė

among the tangles of moments

lost

i wonder where

lived a boy

who grew alone

no visions recall

no recurring moments stall,

and,

i

fall

ever foward

where stands a boy

with torn blue eyes

dying in the cradle of his own arms

no more

but,

there is magic - alone

in the moments of a man

breathing alone within the

ever dusk and tall walls of

a museum laying ancient

images of life to death

before a boy

bleeding

and no more -

and no more.

- jude

 

 

 

my fingers dangling in the rain

closer then water

worn against my skin

a naked chill whispers

illusion names through the

lines on my bones

tears who may never cry pass

through moments across

my eyes

i listen somewhat earlier

then next year

hold tight

against a concrete wall

with nowhere to move

nothing is beauty as,

nothing listens to time

as a window

without lines

holds my eyes - blues in distance

as blood pours down a roof-topís

gutters

streaking window-glass illusions

before me

with no words to form,

here in the palms of my

hands

with which might i scream

and here inside where

else might i go

death screams stare deep into

my face

am i,

a wall of mirrors - watching

time and illusion

drifting me away

or are there tears lying

deathly still on the unseen

tips of my fingers

screams without tears

as,

tears without screams

bound within a fall

my fingers dangling in

the rain

and so alone!

- jude

 

 

 

so bad

so bad, i want to be

so bad, i will never stop being

just to be

time kills me slowly

in a world,

iím without a name.

in a universe,

i belong ,

maybe too well

less then human and torn

my tears are but the

substance of winds

yes, time kills me slowly,

but what can i

say.

- jude

 

 

 

it does turn away

where the road,

it does turn away,

the

lack of time as the lack of sound

there

might mark a way

death is a funny ride,

when carried

just alone inside ,

here, tears of salt and blood

walk the tracks of dreams

long moments across

my eyes

and what did i ever try,

with a single real goodbye

left forever alone,

alongside where here the

road breaks with

something more then

illusion

footsteps with barely an

echo - follow ahead of me

in a darkness where

nothing is ever the same

tears of yesterday

have swollen my pockets

leaning,

forever back to,

to where the road

does turn away.

- jude

 

 

 

on a current which touches

in of water

that drifts within my eyes

on a current which touches

quietly out to the skyís wind

but just a place to begin

and how often do i cry

in tomorrowís rain

and when my eyes

touch them

so, names evolve

stone into,

sand

sand - forever burning into

the soles of my hands

as if there are no commands

but for an

irrational freedom as is wind

eluding the illusion call

of names

and yet;

i stare into water as mirror form,

watching,

what name, forming

a broken cross

eternally within me

turning

i turn

and iím standing somehow

alone

in a graveyard

with faces

carved of death/life in

stone illusion - in

sand

,

while water drifts agelessly

within my eyes

and tomorrow walks on now

without quite a nameís

reasoning of why.

- jude

 

 

 

watching nothing pass me by

eyes through an image in

glass

a bottle empty

of wine

an ashtray - with smoke slow

in rising

cluttered with ash and cigarette butts

my legs lie crossed in a draw of

silent wind - drifting at ease

through a black screened window

and i stare

between myself and that

window

watching all the years present in

now

of nothing floating by

just an empty scream passing

through the palms

of my hands

and i just stare

a book of matches - half used

falls with a single sound,

to a wooden floor

just a sound and nothing more

on a telephone - someone asked

in a demanding voice

why

why not just accept - the state

of theft as they reach for the blood

of your soul

and when my answer

whispered loudly - never,

silence and nothing more

and here - where behind

those black voided windows

i sit - in something more then

alone

watching nothing pass me by

whispering - never

never, will i say

goodbye!

- jude

 

 

 

water death

rain walks down on sky,

to where only a river

might speak - of such things as

water death

you see, here across the

fingers of illusion - nothing is there

to remain at rest

but,

can we ever notice - on the nature

of water death

i stand not quite at

rest just around the corner

of a concrete wall

wet in a rain full of noise

in a place

where rivers seem never to flow

but for the line edges

of gutters,

and,

all the faces soaked with rain

watch,

and - time walks away,

i am wet

but not full in the feel,

of alone, as do my eyes

mirror from within me,

so maybe, just

am i;

is water death

;

and none of all the

rest.

-jude

 

 

 

down toward a riverís own

to say;

there is nothing to whisper

wet and wind

winds through a forest

of dying trees

a man sits on his knees

in the distance - watching

water - in slow change movement

running itís way

along itís way

through just rocks

with nothing to say

it was early yesterday when

she opened her black eyes

to dream against

a hard scar drawn upon her

lower stomach,

her fingers pacing endlessly

back and across

an age old, rest

and yet

and yet

formless tears

pulse to the easy

rhythm of her blood

ever tired

wandering

always wandering

across yesterday morning

wearing herself

naked only to herself

watching trees

seem to move amongst themselves

in the ever distance,

from the still side of a

window glass

there is nothing to whisper

as she pleases just herself

in a closed quiet

and a man

leans alone

down towards a riverís

own.

- jude

 

 

 

no refrain

wind passing on,

a long warm heated day

slowing down,

a woman has

too much and / nothing to say

tomorrow is an itch

deep within my eyes - where

time is not

an endless sea

something means more then nothing

to me

a tear mixes with

sweat - dripping

to the rhythm

of a pulse,

almost matching mine

almost,

a slice of sight,

is deep in black where

light whispers in

night

tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow

quiet in yesterdayís

scream

a simple rain

tasting of something which

stains

no refrain

no refrain ;

- jude

 

 

 

but such a sweet rhythm

your eyes bleed

but still - i donít believe

in you

woman, crossed by a strangerís rain

your demand

for domain

leads me round corners

alone

staring up empty wooden

stairs

while a lost housed wind

whispers

of years never there

;

your eyes bleed

as tears into the empty palms

of your hands

woman

youíre in a strangerís

sandbox

with castles water drawn down

and broken about your

feet

but still,

i have no room left

to wander in your

eternal defeat

,

and i have nowhere

just to bleed my fingers,

where no one could

see

where do we stand behind,

only - you and me

somewhere did you

used to be

but such a sweet rhythm,

woman you

wear - is it

just for me

but such a sweet rhythm,

woman you wear

is it just for you...

- jude

 

 

 

sweet rhythm of ice and feel

thereís a dark rhythm

deep below

where the words blow slowly

where stands in a woman,

too close to the years of

just children born

in quiet eyes ,

shaded by sweet blue steel

a frozen tear, bleeds

for wind

for a voice lying hidden

within the still movement

of trees

long concrete sidewalk walls

where street-lamps seem never

to draw her shadows - finds

a woman catching air

between low easy screams

adrift between

what spaces in where her

soul dreams

is there nowhere to run,

when the sky whispering sun,

burns the morning too quickly

away

is there nowhere to run,

but the sweet rhythm of ice and feel,

is the walk of

a river - where water bends

in itís own flow

in the dark of your eyes

a smile whispers

of a moonís light drift

on oceans to water

i ride the wind, for nowhere to

begin

finding your name,

alive on the lips of a tree

playing my poetís wind

as a quiet blues

in a womanís rage

to be...

- jude

 

 

 

before a window-pane, she breathes

there is death and wind,

that carries with the river

rage walks silently

below

she is sometimes a woman

what and who are they

for when donít

they know

dark skies upon silver tries

on the long whisper of yesterdayís

good-byes

she stands alone

before a black faced mirror

of earth and green

seeing how deeply

what they donít mean

a scream - adrift quietly below

the edge of her skin

where - fingers

dare to stare

beyond tomorrow

; beyond tomorrow

soul fire a burn deeply

within her tears

and of all the years unmarked

dare she ever

finger write their names

where the river

bleeds into sand

,

but the mirror

wears no command

a man stands

with worn eyes

starving back to she

from what side of a window-

pane,

there is death and wind

that carries with the river

and wind - blows

 

all the names

onto,

ice blue rocks

reaching

alone

beyond the sand, alone

where a river

runs

between earth and

trees

;

before a mirror face blank

she bleeds,

before a window-pane,

she breathes

before a window-pane,

she breathes?

- jude

 

 

 

tears, mountain grown

where are,

my rock tears mountain grown

; a woman on sun turned hair

with her shattered crystal

silver night water dreams,

known - never so long ago,

i see her

wandering, not quite alone enough

in where the wind blows

lamp shades cold

beneath deep black shadows

self unseen

never quite - but what does she mean

with death - a name she knew

so long ago

with death

illusion to form - where dreams

dare not to storm her

too loudly

yet

iíve seen her

walking close - to a man without trees

in his hand

holding to his sand drift

of carved wood

love

in warmth in the shade of trees

grown too young

all where

i see - a child is waiting

tightly to die

where are her sweet silver eyes

smiling silence below the

soft tries of a womanís

blood - flowing

the river of shadows

slow to real

as

her poetís self - breathing a longing

fine, for distance and

moments still

where are her sweet silver eyes...

- jude

 

 

 

sweet brown eyes

into slightly more then an

edge of water

unfrozen - deep within a

long time sun

she swims

here and so long ago

suited within a

river flow

dreaming - movement

liquid in free

, freedom

sweet brown eyes

whisper in blue

under a sky never old

never new

just she - in water

free

daring all her world - to be

just to be

suited within a

river in flow,

- jude

 

 

 

cries of alone!

i seem,

so far away

here

on the edge - close to myself,

my eyes burn black within

a color blue / change

to scream - out, ever out

through this mortal stage

that is my skin

for mountains in touch

to a wind reaching sky beyond,

for blues

for nothing and everything new

to a place never held still

on tears who rage within,

to belong

cries of alone,

sewn deeply into the web

of my soul

these faces are noise,

leaning eternally

hard against my,

cries of alone

black wooden stage

you stand - again,

still again

close - to my eyes

and blue fire

a slow

silent raging

blue fire...

- jude

 

 

 

in an early autumn chill wind

i stand against an

empty brick wall

waiting for a name

to come to me

here i am or where

staring into empty black eyes

and no care - on a mirror stand

carved from sweet wood

with my shadow

from a street-lamp call,

pacing to and from

never holding still

and my hair blowing

for freedom,

in an early

autumn chill wind

where dies tomorrow

on the easy side of my hand

i feel ancient

without command

yes - i feel ancient

without command,

a river never listens as

it eternally rides by

somewhere around a cities corner or two.

- jude

 

 

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