the promise of april

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i came here to love you

through lifetimes
i have sought you
in every pair of eyes

i have strained against
the touch of hands
needing to feel your essence

and in spring
when the air reeks
of rain and dirt
i pick your flowers
and see your face
strewn among
the fallen cherry blossoms

i am not here
on this earth
to pull punches
i am here to express

i unbalance the equinox
with poems
obsessive and fevered

this is the promise
my soul makes
time and again
in each incarnation
and life form i inhabit

on this brand new day
i awake in the hope
you will soon be here
with me

 

 

 

 

 
©A. D. Joyce, 2017

 

Agua de Beber Al Jarreau

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The earth has lost another musical great, Al Jarreau. To me, he made music in its purest form, creating the most beautiful and interesting sounds using his body as an instrument, limited only by his vast imagination. For me, he is a forerunner to such artists as Bobby McFerrin, (in my opinion, another genius and innovator in a similar space) and the brilliant Pentatonix. Music literally lived within him and his music is now within me. For that I’m grateful. Rest in peace, Al Jarreau.

your love is rain
my heart a flower

©A. D. Joyce, 2017

An independent love

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Even on a good day
it’s hard to describe what I am
or impose upon myself a metaphor.
To say I am a projection or a hologram
presumes I really know what those things are.

I could say I am the gelatinous goop
of butter and spices hanging off
the leftover chicken in the frig.
But that would be too solid.

I could say I am a shadow leading my shadow,
or at best, a visitor from an
alternate world, separated
from everyone else
by the thinnest of transparencies,
pretending I live among the people—
that is, assuming I know myself well enough
to impose even that hint of a shape.

But I don’t, not any more than
I know how to explain this love I feel,
having accepted the fear
that there is no turning back,
whereas everything else is open ended
and this is complete.

I used to know what an apple is,
but now I don’t.

And what I once thought was love
was only its metaphor,
an approximation of what it could be,
words connected by varying shades of gray,
satellites to this love, which is independent
of anything else that has ever existed—
independent of the words for it,
living in its own universe of absolutes
where there is no such color as gray.

©A. D. Joyce, 2014