9.26.2007
2.02.2007
Brahms Cello Sonata #1 in E Minor
Brahms Cello Sonata #1 in # Minor
Written and Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Let me explain-
a cello is singing to its heart.
It is raining.
Drops of music slip into my ears
while evening pants
to be as naked as the night.
Brahms soothes my wrinkled thoughts
with a rosewood caress of shadows.
His music is late and Autumnal
but we are both
young enough to cry in the dark.
Hair plunges over strings
like a slow wave of twilight.
I have stopped being a listener
now I am the hollow space
in a deeply haunted instrument.
I am these unknown hands
feeding a wordless language
into the swan-necked throat
of silence.
I am the rain as it
meets the fading light
with the melting melodies
of mist and dusk.
My soul dwindles to a glimmer
within an ebony sonata
where love is a sound
too near to be spoken of
as other.
Written and Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Let me explain-
a cello is singing to its heart.
It is raining.
Drops of music slip into my ears
while evening pants
to be as naked as the night.
Brahms soothes my wrinkled thoughts
with a rosewood caress of shadows.
His music is late and Autumnal
but we are both
young enough to cry in the dark.
Hair plunges over strings
like a slow wave of twilight.
I have stopped being a listener
now I am the hollow space
in a deeply haunted instrument.
I am these unknown hands
feeding a wordless language
into the swan-necked throat
of silence.
I am the rain as it
meets the fading light
with the melting melodies
of mist and dusk.
My soul dwindles to a glimmer
within an ebony sonata
where love is a sound
too near to be spoken of
as other.
1.13.2007
Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine
Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine by Dorothy Walters
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine
Is the soul solid like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Mary Oliver
Is the spirit hard and impenetrable
like andradite or a chunk of fallen sky?
Or is it fluid like silt
at the bottom of a departed river,
or silk soothing the thighs
of an ancient dancer before the king?
Is it loud, like cymbals clashing
in front of a procession
heralding a hero’s return . . . .
Or is it timorous and shy,
the notorious violet withdrawn
or the hidden mountain columbine . . . .
Does it go swaggering abroad daring the sunlight,
dazzling onlookers with its sheen,
or does it come creeping out at candlelight
furtively searching for the love it needs . . . .
This spirit, its cloak diaphanous or close woven,
how strange it is,
how enfolded in its
Mystery.
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine
Is the soul solid like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Mary Oliver
Is the spirit hard and impenetrable
like andradite or a chunk of fallen sky?
Or is it fluid like silt
at the bottom of a departed river,
or silk soothing the thighs
of an ancient dancer before the king?
Is it loud, like cymbals clashing
in front of a procession
heralding a hero’s return . . . .
Or is it timorous and shy,
the notorious violet withdrawn
or the hidden mountain columbine . . . .
Does it go swaggering abroad daring the sunlight,
dazzling onlookers with its sheen,
or does it come creeping out at candlelight
furtively searching for the love it needs . . . .
This spirit, its cloak diaphanous or close woven,
how strange it is,
how enfolded in its
Mystery.
Until Even the Angels
Until Even the Angels by Dorothy Walters
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Until Even the Angels
What the heart wants
is to follow its passion,
to lie down with it
near the reeds beside
the river,
to devour it in the caves
between the desert dunes,
to sing its notes
into the morning sky
until even the angels
wake up
and take notice
and look around
for their beloved.
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Until Even the Angels
What the heart wants
is to follow its passion,
to lie down with it
near the reeds beside
the river,
to devour it in the caves
between the desert dunes,
to sing its notes
into the morning sky
until even the angels
wake up
and take notice
and look around
for their beloved.
What If
What If by Dorothy Walters
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
What If
What if it is given to us
not to know, but to feel constantly
those currents of love and agony
which flow unceasingly
through us, through the world,
thrilling the trees
with their bent boughs,
caressing the waves torn by their own
incessant pummeling
against the shore,
even the birds
when they are not here.
What if we can never unravel
the mystery of the eye
following its shimmering beam to
the lover's eye,
the lip seeking the lip.
the invalid crying
alone.
What if we can uncover nothing
beyond this terrible witnessing,
this anguished rapture?
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
What If
What if it is given to us
not to know, but to feel constantly
those currents of love and agony
which flow unceasingly
through us, through the world,
thrilling the trees
with their bent boughs,
caressing the waves torn by their own
incessant pummeling
against the shore,
even the birds
when they are not here.
What if we can never unravel
the mystery of the eye
following its shimmering beam to
the lover's eye,
the lip seeking the lip.
the invalid crying
alone.
What if we can uncover nothing
beyond this terrible witnessing,
this anguished rapture?
1.06.2007
Buddha & Nefertitti
Buddha & Nefertitti written by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Buddha & Nefertitti
unlikely partners
on a drafting table
they drink
the morning light
he of carved teak
she of composite stone
12 inches tall as if heaven
had shrunk overnight
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Buddha & Nefertitti
unlikely partners
on a drafting table
they drink
the morning light
he of carved teak
she of composite stone
12 inches tall as if heaven
had shrunk overnight
1.04.2007
Naked Dancing
Naked Dancing by Eric Ashford
click here
Naked Dancing
We crash through the night
while a needle sharp music
un-stitches the flesh of two.
Nothing survives but our hands
which fly together
falling upwards
like the rain and the sky.
I find you
in the grasping.
My hand enclosing Your desire
as if it were a flower:
A sky orchid
wet with the lustre
of our sexuality.
Fingers grow minds.
Little universes of light
that You suck into a succulence
of cream and ruby lips.
Petals that are openings
that bloom
out of Your orchid vision.
A vision You give my hands
as they plunder their own sensations
feeling You
dancing naked there.
click here
Naked Dancing
We crash through the night
while a needle sharp music
un-stitches the flesh of two.
Nothing survives but our hands
which fly together
falling upwards
like the rain and the sky.
I find you
in the grasping.
My hand enclosing Your desire
as if it were a flower:
A sky orchid
wet with the lustre
of our sexuality.
Fingers grow minds.
Little universes of light
that You suck into a succulence
of cream and ruby lips.
Petals that are openings
that bloom
out of Your orchid vision.
A vision You give my hands
as they plunder their own sensations
feeling You
dancing naked there.
The Seed of Your Light
The Seed of Your Light by Eric Ashford
click here
The Seed of Your Light
Every hungering cell bursts into prayer.
All my little birds are howling.
Each nerve ending is a mouth for your kisses.
Hunting in the dark we pull apart the light.
You sit down upon me.
You use these upturned hands
to overturn Your bowls of desire.
I am a raw enzyme
in Your chemical reaction.
You need this fusion of sensuality,
this dissolving.
Without this co-dependence
vision and feeling cannot merge.
When a plane dives into the ground
the earth buries it.
The force of the crash pulls off the wings
the fuselage splits open
people spill out already dead.
Where lust crashes
the blood continues to dance.
We spill out
as ghosts of Your bliss
and the seed of Your light.
click here
The Seed of Your Light
Every hungering cell bursts into prayer.
All my little birds are howling.
Each nerve ending is a mouth for your kisses.
Hunting in the dark we pull apart the light.
You sit down upon me.
You use these upturned hands
to overturn Your bowls of desire.
I am a raw enzyme
in Your chemical reaction.
You need this fusion of sensuality,
this dissolving.
Without this co-dependence
vision and feeling cannot merge.
When a plane dives into the ground
the earth buries it.
The force of the crash pulls off the wings
the fuselage splits open
people spill out already dead.
Where lust crashes
the blood continues to dance.
We spill out
as ghosts of Your bliss
and the seed of Your light.
Her Fingers Shape My Voice
Her Fingers Shape My Voice by Eric Ashford
click here
Her Fingers Shape My Voice
Dogs bring us wounds to lick.
You eat from my fingers
where You smell blood.
Because I am darkly shaped
like a guitar,
You keep Your hands
around my neck
and only when they move
do I speak.
In the Opening
everyone drinks from the same mouth.
There are no limbs
so we walk through each other.
There is a body here
but it is inward like a closed bloom.
The seashell is open
and the sea is inside it unseen.
If I place one finger in You,
we both moan.
Love gazes back into it self
to become the vision of the Goddess.
When I push into You
You open my hips
where vision flowers.
My hinges are all broken
since You made me Your secret.
click here
Her Fingers Shape My Voice
Dogs bring us wounds to lick.
You eat from my fingers
where You smell blood.
Because I am darkly shaped
like a guitar,
You keep Your hands
around my neck
and only when they move
do I speak.
In the Opening
everyone drinks from the same mouth.
There are no limbs
so we walk through each other.
There is a body here
but it is inward like a closed bloom.
The seashell is open
and the sea is inside it unseen.
If I place one finger in You,
we both moan.
Love gazes back into it self
to become the vision of the Goddess.
When I push into You
You open my hips
where vision flowers.
My hinges are all broken
since You made me Your secret.
Bridal Chamber
Bridal Chamber by Eric Ashford
click here
Bridal Chamber
I am at Your fountain drinking.
We are spread out across the land.
No one sees us
they are too busy
being our eyes and hands.
I place my cheek
upon every drop of Your presence.
Hips become lips.
I am formed in the flow of You.
You couch and dimple
for my being.
I want to take You into my tepee.
I want You to chew my moccasins
while I adore You.
It is a cold night
and we must be marrow
for long lived bones.
I will not disturb Your hair
with wild dreams.
I will grow seasons in You.
I will rest like a warm pillow
between Your legs.
Just as You rest like a dove
between mine.
click here
Bridal Chamber
I am at Your fountain drinking.
We are spread out across the land.
No one sees us
they are too busy
being our eyes and hands.
I place my cheek
upon every drop of Your presence.
Hips become lips.
I am formed in the flow of You.
You couch and dimple
for my being.
I want to take You into my tepee.
I want You to chew my moccasins
while I adore You.
It is a cold night
and we must be marrow
for long lived bones.
I will not disturb Your hair
with wild dreams.
I will grow seasons in You.
I will rest like a warm pillow
between Your legs.
Just as You rest like a dove
between mine.
Enlightenment
Enlightenment by Eric Ashford
click here to listen
Enlightenment
A broken-legged
drizzle walks the streets.
The sky runs down
shop windows.
I look sideways at myself.
A mistake…
I am hunched and beaten looking.
Gray as a ghost but not as attractive.
I remember when I was younger
than my earliest poem.
How windows used to adore me.
How the light would reflect every
aspect of my finely chiselled ego.
I am wiser now and
my values have changed hands
like mortgaged houses
that I can no longer afford to live in.
Yes, I am enlightened
and there is nothing more illuminating
than a shop window
on a gray rainy afternoon.
click here to listen
Enlightenment
A broken-legged
drizzle walks the streets.
The sky runs down
shop windows.
I look sideways at myself.
A mistake…
I am hunched and beaten looking.
Gray as a ghost but not as attractive.
I remember when I was younger
than my earliest poem.
How windows used to adore me.
How the light would reflect every
aspect of my finely chiselled ego.
I am wiser now and
my values have changed hands
like mortgaged houses
that I can no longer afford to live in.
Yes, I am enlightened
and there is nothing more illuminating
than a shop window
on a gray rainy afternoon.
Crone
Crone by Eric Ashford
click here
Crone
The light is sewing night-gowns for the twilight
It is weaving threads of nakedness together
and now my words
must be shot through with light.
My truth punctured by the unknown,
a radiance of thought beyond thought.
O Holy Night
bringer of comfort and pain
kiss me deep
where my soul can shed
seeds of newness.
For I have been a broken tooth of desire
but my pelt is pliable and whole.
Let the beautiful crone of love
anoint my substance with
new wisdom
for tomorrow's original dawn
shall come begging soon
at my door.
click here
Crone
The light is sewing night-gowns for the twilight
It is weaving threads of nakedness together
and now my words
must be shot through with light.
My truth punctured by the unknown,
a radiance of thought beyond thought.
O Holy Night
bringer of comfort and pain
kiss me deep
where my soul can shed
seeds of newness.
For I have been a broken tooth of desire
but my pelt is pliable and whole.
Let the beautiful crone of love
anoint my substance with
new wisdom
for tomorrow's original dawn
shall come begging soon
at my door.
1.01.2007
Trawling
Trawling written by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Trawling
I'm bottom trawling on the sea-floor of my mind
scrabbling with eels over sand paths
while fever-induced visions rise like sponges
speaking in the ancient Aramaic of fish.
I'm dragged by the currents into strange lights
neither night nor day, backlit from within
as from the the lights of fireflies
or the phosphorescence of deep water shrimp.
This world is slow motion, heavy with silt
and slow breathing, rich with intimations.
I meet myself in the orange eyes of small fish.
I paint now with fin and claw and water-breaths.
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Trawling
I'm bottom trawling on the sea-floor of my mind
scrabbling with eels over sand paths
while fever-induced visions rise like sponges
speaking in the ancient Aramaic of fish.
I'm dragged by the currents into strange lights
neither night nor day, backlit from within
as from the the lights of fireflies
or the phosphorescence of deep water shrimp.
This world is slow motion, heavy with silt
and slow breathing, rich with intimations.
I meet myself in the orange eyes of small fish.
I paint now with fin and claw and water-breaths.
12.18.2006
Impatient
Written by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Impatient
I am impatient as always
wanting the high notes
that curl of the sun
on my tongue
that flare of heat inside
I resist the damp green
of leaves, the slide of mud
along the path
the dailiness of days
even though I know
snail shells are
constructions of wonder
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Impatient
I am impatient as always
wanting the high notes
that curl of the sun
on my tongue
that flare of heat inside
I resist the damp green
of leaves, the slide of mud
along the path
the dailiness of days
even though I know
snail shells are
constructions of wonder
12.14.2006
Opening My Book
Opening My Book by Eric Ashford
click here
Opening My Book
I had to write this poem.
For today I have not an idea in my head.
There is nothing in or on my mind
to cultivate into words.
My hands are too slippery to pick up.
I am a guitar in a bare tree.
Mouth open, eyes open
like a Zen monk-
or a deep water fish.
A sea and the sound it makes
as it is swallowed.
I am watching the grass grow.
It is green, it is seen,
it is a field of myself.
A poem with nothing to say
but it is still green
and worth reading.
click here
Opening My Book
I had to write this poem.
For today I have not an idea in my head.
There is nothing in or on my mind
to cultivate into words.
My hands are too slippery to pick up.
I am a guitar in a bare tree.
Mouth open, eyes open
like a Zen monk-
or a deep water fish.
A sea and the sound it makes
as it is swallowed.
I am watching the grass grow.
It is green, it is seen,
it is a field of myself.
A poem with nothing to say
but it is still green
and worth reading.
The Margin
The Margin by Eric Ashford
click here
The Margin
The cobwebs of the sky
are ankle deep and curling.
I drift out to the banks of the pond
where the sun will rise
like a golden fish.
Yesterday has not caught up.
It has taken many years to become
as bewildered as this.
It is not that I am tired, just thinly spread
like the light upon these waters.
I am awed by the ushering in of my life-
its ripple effects.
Here by the margin,
where the heron awakes fully clothed,
there is a dream's plumage
and comfort.
There is a watch-keeping
where the cobwebs
break apart,
a timeless moment.
The only moment
that will be remembered
of the path
that led me here.
click here
The Margin
The cobwebs of the sky
are ankle deep and curling.
I drift out to the banks of the pond
where the sun will rise
like a golden fish.
Yesterday has not caught up.
It has taken many years to become
as bewildered as this.
It is not that I am tired, just thinly spread
like the light upon these waters.
I am awed by the ushering in of my life-
its ripple effects.
Here by the margin,
where the heron awakes fully clothed,
there is a dream's plumage
and comfort.
There is a watch-keeping
where the cobwebs
break apart,
a timeless moment.
The only moment
that will be remembered
of the path
that led me here.
Unpatched Lives
Unpatched Lives by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Unpatched Lives
The dark is warm as blood
filled with the swimming calls of frogs.
My mind is damp from this marriage
of water and air, these rains
that have swallowed the land.
Each cell is swollen and heavy.
Words like plump caterpillars
roll in my mind. Leaves drip.
I watch the sky turn the color of pewter
while the day puts on an old sweater
with holes at the elbows.
We live unpatched lives, you and I.
We let these threads of ourselves
hang loose to form soul tangles
from our dancing.
Poems have built nests in us.
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Unpatched Lives
The dark is warm as blood
filled with the swimming calls of frogs.
My mind is damp from this marriage
of water and air, these rains
that have swallowed the land.
Each cell is swollen and heavy.
Words like plump caterpillars
roll in my mind. Leaves drip.
I watch the sky turn the color of pewter
while the day puts on an old sweater
with holes at the elbows.
We live unpatched lives, you and I.
We let these threads of ourselves
hang loose to form soul tangles
from our dancing.
Poems have built nests in us.
Thresholds
Thresholds by Eric Ashford
click here
Thresholds
The morning we wake up dying
becomes the last step
the one that trips us up into life.
Thresholds are not places we pass through
but cul-de-sacs for our terminal blindness.
The tree topples because it is too fruitful
or too hollow.
A river meanders, but until it tumbles
over a waterfall it keeps losing power.
A mind continues to close doors
then all the locks shatter.
People fall in love and fall over love
until there is only the sound
of hearts breaking bones.
We are nonplussed into the light.
And what is a threshold?
It is the hilarity of a dancing bear
as the divine beast
feels its power to survive.
The uproar of small irresistible desires
as you come through yourself
seeking your strength.
You are out of your own trap.
You are a portal
beaten open with sky-clad hands.
The earth caved inwards
and you stood within yourself.
The rains came; the burial party left.
Secretly you grew in your own ruins
until your long history crumbled away.
Then you went out to buy a newspaper
but you did not read it.
For there would be no report
of your liberation
until you wrote a poem
only the living could write
and the dead could understand.
click here
Thresholds
The morning we wake up dying
becomes the last step
the one that trips us up into life.
Thresholds are not places we pass through
but cul-de-sacs for our terminal blindness.
The tree topples because it is too fruitful
or too hollow.
A river meanders, but until it tumbles
over a waterfall it keeps losing power.
A mind continues to close doors
then all the locks shatter.
People fall in love and fall over love
until there is only the sound
of hearts breaking bones.
We are nonplussed into the light.
And what is a threshold?
It is the hilarity of a dancing bear
as the divine beast
feels its power to survive.
The uproar of small irresistible desires
as you come through yourself
seeking your strength.
You are out of your own trap.
You are a portal
beaten open with sky-clad hands.
The earth caved inwards
and you stood within yourself.
The rains came; the burial party left.
Secretly you grew in your own ruins
until your long history crumbled away.
Then you went out to buy a newspaper
but you did not read it.
For there would be no report
of your liberation
until you wrote a poem
only the living could write
and the dead could understand.
Sour Milk
Sister Agatha by Eric Ashford
click here
Sour Milk
Sister Agatha was a bitch,
we all feared her
the kind of fear that is the taste
of sour milk.
How it lingers in you
as you take your daily milk
in the convent playground.
I had a new friend-
Jenny, I knew her as Jenny.
Six years old. One step beside me
always chattering away-
a sparrow singing by my hand.
The nuns could not abide sparrows
or anything
as nourishing as new milk.
They kept their milk creaking
held tightly to their bound breasts
as sour as sin.
They separated us.
We did not guess
it was that dark triangle,
of their own milky visions
that drove them sourely to part us,
to watch us
as if we were small pink bombs.
As inevitable as morning dew
two sparrows would sometimes meet
stealing time like crumbs.
Our heads close together
as we whispered.
Soon they found us
they brought us to the caning room
of that bride of Christ
who lashed bottoms in her dreams
as if churning milk.
We did not cry much.
Jenny may have exploded inside
as I did
as we bent over to receive
the prayers of that demented witch
but we kept a secret with us
like milk in our hearts:
the simple truth that
Agatha was indeed a bitch.
click here
Sour Milk
Sister Agatha was a bitch,
we all feared her
the kind of fear that is the taste
of sour milk.
How it lingers in you
as you take your daily milk
in the convent playground.
I had a new friend-
Jenny, I knew her as Jenny.
Six years old. One step beside me
always chattering away-
a sparrow singing by my hand.
The nuns could not abide sparrows
or anything
as nourishing as new milk.
They kept their milk creaking
held tightly to their bound breasts
as sour as sin.
They separated us.
We did not guess
it was that dark triangle,
of their own milky visions
that drove them sourely to part us,
to watch us
as if we were small pink bombs.
As inevitable as morning dew
two sparrows would sometimes meet
stealing time like crumbs.
Our heads close together
as we whispered.
Soon they found us
they brought us to the caning room
of that bride of Christ
who lashed bottoms in her dreams
as if churning milk.
We did not cry much.
Jenny may have exploded inside
as I did
as we bent over to receive
the prayers of that demented witch
but we kept a secret with us
like milk in our hearts:
the simple truth that
Agatha was indeed a bitch.
I Am
I Am by n.m.rai
read by Eric Ashford
click here
I Am
I am the soft hoots
of an owl's
midday dream.
I am the sigh
of the worm sliding
down the robin's throat.
I am the sun in your voice
as you whisper
good morning.
I am the curling light
of dawn smoking
itself as dreams.
I am the flea in a forest
of puppy fur in love
with the music of barks.
read by Eric Ashford
click here
I Am
I am the soft hoots
of an owl's
midday dream.
I am the sigh
of the worm sliding
down the robin's throat.
I am the sun in your voice
as you whisper
good morning.
I am the curling light
of dawn smoking
itself as dreams.
I am the flea in a forest
of puppy fur in love
with the music of barks.
Silent
Silent by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Silent
Rose petals carpet the desert.
A cardboard box against the wall
sits songless and without light.
The dark is simply itself.
A frog with a sore throat
slumps on its lily pad.
It is a dawn of outlines
of fleshless things,
of cold winds and torn leaves.
Even the radio can’t pick up
any voices. You are silent
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Silent
Rose petals carpet the desert.
A cardboard box against the wall
sits songless and without light.
The dark is simply itself.
A frog with a sore throat
slumps on its lily pad.
It is a dawn of outlines
of fleshless things,
of cold winds and torn leaves.
Even the radio can’t pick up
any voices. You are silent
Red Feathers
Red Feathers by n.m. rai
read by Eric Ashford
click here
Red Feathers
He wears red feathers.
He is early this morning,
his glissando of night joys
joins me
in this ritual awakening.
We are companions of the dark
sharing nightmares.
I wander lost
he cringes from
the beating of night wings.
We meet each morning-
monks rising for matins.
I look for him now,
his prayers
a counterpoint to mine.
read by Eric Ashford
click here
Red Feathers
He wears red feathers.
He is early this morning,
his glissando of night joys
joins me
in this ritual awakening.
We are companions of the dark
sharing nightmares.
I wander lost
he cringes from
the beating of night wings.
We meet each morning-
monks rising for matins.
I look for him now,
his prayers
a counterpoint to mine.
Open Shell
Open Shell by Eric Ashford
click here
Open Shell
Light pulls apart
a few deep water images
with its starfish muscles
until I am a tongue
in an unlocked shell.
Occasionally I drift back to sleep like this
my mind agape
leaking submerged worlds
and pouring out a lucid reality
as I float
on a bed of kelp and spin-drift.
And because my mind is half open
it can speak as it dreams.
It can fashion a language
for the flying fish and the whales.
These voices come ashore
saturated into words.
A spongy exposed vernacular
of deep sea currents
that speak of the ocean
in the empty shell of time.
click here
Open Shell
Light pulls apart
a few deep water images
with its starfish muscles
until I am a tongue
in an unlocked shell.
Occasionally I drift back to sleep like this
my mind agape
leaking submerged worlds
and pouring out a lucid reality
as I float
on a bed of kelp and spin-drift.
And because my mind is half open
it can speak as it dreams.
It can fashion a language
for the flying fish and the whales.
These voices come ashore
saturated into words.
A spongy exposed vernacular
of deep sea currents
that speak of the ocean
in the empty shell of time.
April
April by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
April
There is a great feast
and a great joy growing
out of a burned soil.
Forest fires seed
an abundance of new life
even as the old
is flame-swallowed.
Spring chews through
the compost of winter
and crocuses flute white
from the slime.
Energy steams like mist
from every cell,
from soil and skin
and beak and feathers.
The Christ is risen and
Buddha dances on lotus leaves.
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
April
There is a great feast
and a great joy growing
out of a burned soil.
Forest fires seed
an abundance of new life
even as the old
is flame-swallowed.
Spring chews through
the compost of winter
and crocuses flute white
from the slime.
Energy steams like mist
from every cell,
from soil and skin
and beak and feathers.
The Christ is risen and
Buddha dances on lotus leaves.
12.11.2006
Wind Songs
Wind Songs by Eric Ashford
click here
Wind Songs
Butterflies in the park
but the wind is too strong to see them.
Some look like flowers
that appear only in Spring,
some like spinning leaves in Autumn.
We are strangers in this park
and the colour of love
is a wind-song we make visible.
Life is a poem,
a brief butterfly
that paints the sky.
Some of us are words for the wind,
some of us are wings for words
as the world spins by.
It is enough.
click here
Wind Songs
Butterflies in the park
but the wind is too strong to see them.
Some look like flowers
that appear only in Spring,
some like spinning leaves in Autumn.
We are strangers in this park
and the colour of love
is a wind-song we make visible.
Life is a poem,
a brief butterfly
that paints the sky.
Some of us are words for the wind,
some of us are wings for words
as the world spins by.
It is enough.
Hand Speaking
Hand Speaking by n.m. rai
Spoken by Eric Ashford
click here
Hand Speaking
Ancient palms and fingers spoke with carbon dust
of a god of running hooves and sweating breath
ten thousand years later we capture the fire
inside and write poems from our ashes
Spoken by Eric Ashford
click here
Hand Speaking
Ancient palms and fingers spoke with carbon dust
of a god of running hooves and sweating breath
ten thousand years later we capture the fire
inside and write poems from our ashes
An Apartment for Open Secrets
An Apartment for Open Secrets by Eric Ashford
click here for poem
An Apartment for Open Secrets
We have made a living together,
rooms inside this life of ours.
We watch one another like other people
watch the stars or their television sets.
Windows have opened in our fingertips.
We have walls that fold inwards
and adjust to the pressure of passion.
Our hands are dimmer switches for
the fine tuning of devotion.
I bathe in the afterglow of your breath.
I cosset you with the soft furnishings of care
attending to the prayers of your limbs.
Sometimes we draw the curtains
enjoying the darkness.
We are the lovers
that everyone has heard of, but no one knows.
Living rooms, an apartment within
their view of love.
click here for poem
An Apartment for Open Secrets
We have made a living together,
rooms inside this life of ours.
We watch one another like other people
watch the stars or their television sets.
Windows have opened in our fingertips.
We have walls that fold inwards
and adjust to the pressure of passion.
Our hands are dimmer switches for
the fine tuning of devotion.
I bathe in the afterglow of your breath.
I cosset you with the soft furnishings of care
attending to the prayers of your limbs.
Sometimes we draw the curtains
enjoying the darkness.
We are the lovers
that everyone has heard of, but no one knows.
Living rooms, an apartment within
their view of love.
A Light Resurrection
A Light Resurrection by Eric Ashford
click here
A Light Resurrection
Behind my humming bird eyes
within the sealed crypts of my mind
light has been breaking through.
Beams have perforated my earth
until a hand chiselled masonry
of my secret death has crumbled away.
The native people say:
That a man without a past
is like the wind in the grass;
homeless.
Yet who would want a history
nailed to a crucifix of darkness
when they could spread wings of light
and fly beyond the tombs
that all men make
of God?
click here
A Light Resurrection
Behind my humming bird eyes
within the sealed crypts of my mind
light has been breaking through.
Beams have perforated my earth
until a hand chiselled masonry
of my secret death has crumbled away.
The native people say:
That a man without a past
is like the wind in the grass;
homeless.
Yet who would want a history
nailed to a crucifix of darkness
when they could spread wings of light
and fly beyond the tombs
that all men make
of God?
The Glimmer of Love's Secrets
The Glimmer of Love's Secrets by Eric Ashford
click
The Glimmer of Love's Secrets
I am learning to listen
beyond the twin blades of reason and instinct.
To feed my mind to the birds,
to bury my hands into the wet warm earth
that I may feel what the sky has planted.
I walk in the glimmer of loves secrets.
I tell no one my heart
but I do translate the poems of strangers
and when I speak, lovers will know
their own wild raw language.
I listen for the footsteps
of all the unknown brilliant creatures
that populate this world
not noticing their own radiance.
Some have been sharks for a million years
but I see their angel feathers
emerging from their dreams.
I pay no heed
to the residue and detritus of old fears.
I see the coming of the Lord
and He is a sleek female raven
perched upon my shoulder.
To whom I now listen
for these new images of love.
click
The Glimmer of Love's Secrets
I am learning to listen
beyond the twin blades of reason and instinct.
To feed my mind to the birds,
to bury my hands into the wet warm earth
that I may feel what the sky has planted.
I walk in the glimmer of loves secrets.
I tell no one my heart
but I do translate the poems of strangers
and when I speak, lovers will know
their own wild raw language.
I listen for the footsteps
of all the unknown brilliant creatures
that populate this world
not noticing their own radiance.
Some have been sharks for a million years
but I see their angel feathers
emerging from their dreams.
I pay no heed
to the residue and detritus of old fears.
I see the coming of the Lord
and He is a sleek female raven
perched upon my shoulder.
To whom I now listen
for these new images of love.
First Light
First Light by Eric Ashford
click here
First Light
The meadow is on fire.
Dawn delights in its face.
The trees are blazing
with a flickering joy.
The wooden fence near the brook
is tilting into radiance.
I wade neck high in water music,
the rest of me is flame.
A horse steams in the paddock
illuminated by its breath-
by my gaze.
I lift my eyes up for the sky.
Little flowers shine
under the earth.
Birds glow like shooting stars
in the morning sun.
It has begun.
click here
First Light
The meadow is on fire.
Dawn delights in its face.
The trees are blazing
with a flickering joy.
The wooden fence near the brook
is tilting into radiance.
I wade neck high in water music,
the rest of me is flame.
A horse steams in the paddock
illuminated by its breath-
by my gaze.
I lift my eyes up for the sky.
Little flowers shine
under the earth.
Birds glow like shooting stars
in the morning sun.
It has begun.
Teepee
Teepee by Eric Ashford
Click here.
Teepee
It is hard to be objective
I keep slipping you under my tongue
and tasting you.
Your face is not clear.
Your body so sexually fluid
that it slips through my mind.
A metaphysical romance
needs deep flesh to hold it together
or it is just a ghost dance.
In the solitary twilit prairies
of our two souls
I want to be your tepee.
Somewhere for you to snuggle
and talk of the world outside of us.
I will wrap you in my own pelts.
My body shall be a campfire
where you can warm your hands.
We will make this poem of our love
breathe deeply,
make it speak from the rich earth
like a real flower.
Click here.
Teepee
It is hard to be objective
I keep slipping you under my tongue
and tasting you.
Your face is not clear.
Your body so sexually fluid
that it slips through my mind.
A metaphysical romance
needs deep flesh to hold it together
or it is just a ghost dance.
In the solitary twilit prairies
of our two souls
I want to be your tepee.
Somewhere for you to snuggle
and talk of the world outside of us.
I will wrap you in my own pelts.
My body shall be a campfire
where you can warm your hands.
We will make this poem of our love
breathe deeply,
make it speak from the rich earth
like a real flower.
Downpours
Downpours by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
Click here to listen.
Downpours
Love ravages me
as I swallow the night
and drown in
tropical downpours.
Feed upon my remains.
I am in you already.
I wear your arms and
you look through my eyes.
Poems flow like blood
from our mouths
through blisters of
a fierce longing,
past lips of desire.
Images fall as breaths
and we dance them
in night dreams.
When dawn comes,
we rise as birds
and fly into the sun.
Read by Eric Ashford
Click here to listen.
Downpours
Love ravages me
as I swallow the night
and drown in
tropical downpours.
Feed upon my remains.
I am in you already.
I wear your arms and
you look through my eyes.
Poems flow like blood
from our mouths
through blisters of
a fierce longing,
past lips of desire.
Images fall as breaths
and we dance them
in night dreams.
When dawn comes,
we rise as birds
and fly into the sun.
Love Has All Kinds of Ears
Love Has All Kinds of Ears by Eric Ashford
Listen here.
Love Has All Kinds of Ears
My dog is deaf
she does not listen with her ears anymore
but with her heart.
She taught me how to do this.
She taught me with love and patience
as if I were a child that had to be shown
by example.
Love has all kinds of ears.
The Beloved shows you how to listen
until you are alert and eager to please.
You become a good dog
ready to hear any call to love.
Listen here.
Love Has All Kinds of Ears
My dog is deaf
she does not listen with her ears anymore
but with her heart.
She taught me how to do this.
She taught me with love and patience
as if I were a child that had to be shown
by example.
Love has all kinds of ears.
The Beloved shows you how to listen
until you are alert and eager to please.
You become a good dog
ready to hear any call to love.
A Home for Our Hearts
A Home for Our Hearts by Eric Ashford
listen here
A Home for Our Hearts
We have imagined a place like this.
The architecture of our dreams
sun-bleached into reality.
It is not far from any road
but only our closed eyes
and the feathered hobo's of the sky
can find it.
We live there like tramps also.
Moving in and out
always emptying the rooms
and filling them with more things
we have created together.
This habitat is our secret,
we have discovered it
in the lines of our hands,
in the reflection of all that water
that flows between us.
It is an old house,
as old as our story.
Sometimes
when we are worlds away
it whispers to itself
like a ghost in the night.
Today you are alone on the porch
singing nightingale songs
while I try to find my way home
to you.
listen here
A Home for Our Hearts
We have imagined a place like this.
The architecture of our dreams
sun-bleached into reality.
It is not far from any road
but only our closed eyes
and the feathered hobo's of the sky
can find it.
We live there like tramps also.
Moving in and out
always emptying the rooms
and filling them with more things
we have created together.
This habitat is our secret,
we have discovered it
in the lines of our hands,
in the reflection of all that water
that flows between us.
It is an old house,
as old as our story.
Sometimes
when we are worlds away
it whispers to itself
like a ghost in the night.
Today you are alone on the porch
singing nightingale songs
while I try to find my way home
to you.
Speak Your Thundering Mind into My Heart
"Speak your Thundering Mind into My Heart" by Eric Ashford
Click here to listen.
Speak Your Thundering Mind into My Heart
Tell me
how you want me?
Should I lay down or stand?
Will I be in Your way
or Your door to open?
You may walk over me
but please do that
with Your lips and hands.
Show me
what position to assume.
What shadows to cast
into silhouettes of You?
This love affair just got serious
but I can smile as You use me.
Will I be the lion or the lamb?
My legs girders of passion
or stems for Your flowers?
Tell me
how to adopt a position
how to please You.
I cannot do this on my own.
This ravishing
must be a shared surrender.
I promise to die for You
just give me Your Soul to lay down in.
Show me.
Speak Your thundering Mind into my heart.
Click here to listen.
Speak Your Thundering Mind into My Heart
Tell me
how you want me?
Should I lay down or stand?
Will I be in Your way
or Your door to open?
You may walk over me
but please do that
with Your lips and hands.
Show me
what position to assume.
What shadows to cast
into silhouettes of You?
This love affair just got serious
but I can smile as You use me.
Will I be the lion or the lamb?
My legs girders of passion
or stems for Your flowers?
Tell me
how to adopt a position
how to please You.
I cannot do this on my own.
This ravishing
must be a shared surrender.
I promise to die for You
just give me Your Soul to lay down in.
Show me.
Speak Your thundering Mind into my heart.
12.10.2006
Contagion
Contagion by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
Click here
Contagion
Death from the sky drops in.
Don't shoot the robins the papers say.
It's the chickens and the ducks,
the fowl, that harbor the pathogen.
It's not the songbirds at the windows,
the ones that live in poems and dreams.
But crows die. Their large dark bodies are
hard to miss sifted onto sidewalks like snow.
We read the papers. We are under siege.
Danger may arrive with the dawn chorus.
Visions of flu and melting glaciers
join wolves in the living room
People share their nightmares
and fire wildly at clotheslines.
Read by Eric Ashford
Click here
Contagion
Death from the sky drops in.
Don't shoot the robins the papers say.
It's the chickens and the ducks,
the fowl, that harbor the pathogen.
It's not the songbirds at the windows,
the ones that live in poems and dreams.
But crows die. Their large dark bodies are
hard to miss sifted onto sidewalks like snow.
We read the papers. We are under siege.
Danger may arrive with the dawn chorus.
Visions of flu and melting glaciers
join wolves in the living room
People share their nightmares
and fire wildly at clotheslines.
