LAWRENCE WILDE
Dancing Suns
A moment to reflect
And listen to the insects
Outside your window
Playing small tambourines
A moment to inhale
The air, sweet like tangerines
Open your closed eyes
To see the blues and greens
A moment to recall
The first time you saw the sky
Before you wondered
Why?
And found meaning in it all
A moment to realize
How small we truly are
How innocently
We wish upon the falling stars
A moment to reflect
And watch the vast night sky, specked
With tiny dancing suns
For with their celestial gleam
They reveal what it all means
Inhale
The air, sweet like tangerines
September 2020
Inessential Engines
Bitter celestial winds take the flower
Where dirt and birds are one
A room of brutal distances
Where uneven hours rage
Screaming, burning, scarlet yellow
Unbound sweetness dwindles
Darkness scorched and scattered
Consumes glaciers, devours gardens
Endlessly reflected in the fluency of tears
While inessential engines burn the surface of a rose
The ground where Babylon once stood
Ruins swept away by the hollow torrent of time
Spontaneous and inescapable, perpetual mirage
A palace of destruction where, impatiently, it
Drains all, hills, scarlet flowers,
Emerald blue streams, quite villages,
Grief, ascending, dreaming, the lyric veils
Of rainfall, oceans, forests, it drains all
Echo of a Ripple - EP
Lawrence Wilde
Released: January 23, 2020
Memory
i.
I can still remember her features
Gorgeous lemon-blue fields filled
With weeping wingless creatures
Floating reflections of imagination
Touched lightning shying away
ii.
I can still remember her features
Tree-roots versus machine
Forgotten hell, sanctuary, and all in-between
Smoke rising like roses
The sharpness of time cutting through so it’s seen
iii.
I can still remember her
Tarnished solitude, overgrown, covered by
Gentle metal flowers, their blade-like petals
Shimmer in the night, sepia shadows in
The windows of forgotten photographs
In the quite beyond
in the quite beyond
silence
lips are tulip petals
eyes eclipse all suns
darkness is sweet like song
we dance
in the space beyond
emptiness
flesh is eternal mystery
night, a nightingale,
light, lost in a gale
echo of a ripple
remember to forget
in the silence that is absence
breathe, for it is not yet
in this night that is lightless
stand in the torn light
In the trembling whisper
the lilting of being
see, it is not yet
No word comes
listen, it is not yet
the echo of a ripple
overwhelms you
does time have mass?
Your eyes speak of silence
a naked abyss
Trembling at the edge of utterance
As infinite brittle raindrops touch our skin
lightly(as not to break)
The fragrance of air
does time have mass?
I wonder
as suddenly it feels so light
The Mass of Time - EP
Lawrence Wilde
Released: January 23, 2020
our ancient dance
my fingers decipher you
tiny hairs on your body dance
like small leaves of small trees
fearful of touch
your eyes, stars, hide behind a dark sky
your heart, a cathedral consumed by fire,
night
leads us along the iridescent trail of moonlight
pagan drums beat to the rhythm
of the not so distant flames
how tender is our ancient dance
True Ink
Flirtatious hands expose true ink
Skin embraces misery, a violent exile
Loneliness, smells, salts, and souls
Words, tender arms reaching for eternity
Flames and dust against ancient clear waters
Firmly touching limbs, drowning the dense, the visible
Bare and starving we shift beyond nothing
Beyond smell, beyond sight, beyond touch
Embracing exposure we kiss as the darkness
Around us shatters
I kiss your round belly
I kiss your round belly
Inside our son is already
Dreaming
I kiss your breasts
His sustenance
I kiss your lips
His lullaby
I kiss your skin aglow
Like sunlight beaming
At your feet I fall
My heart screaming
Mother of my child
I’ve never known a love so whole
So kind
the last of the ancients
the ancients among us
i see them by their eyes
we have killed their fathers
they are so firmly set
in this soil
which means nothing to us
as we dream of a soil far away
the ancients among us
i heard her sing
silently
it was just wind
i can swear it was the
howl of a wolf
or was is the string of a violin
the ancients among us
am I one of them
i, we see our people, men
Dying
there are so few
so desperate is our poetry
sometimes I think I’m possessed
by a spirit that lived and is still living on this soil
i can hear his cry
i swear it is the howl of a wolf
i built a house upon his bones
but his daughter serenades me
with her violin
i’ve dreamt nightmares
and violence
the last of the ancients walks
and sings, and dances among us
how strong is her,their spirit
for it endures this house of stone
how long will you sing my child?
Saints of Silence - EP
Lawrence Wilde
Released: January 23, 2020
the vacancy of time
Paint crosses a canvas
And a man stands upright
In the distance a boy descends
To the fallen gates
Where the sea beats itself upon the rocks,
A bell is rung, an invitation
Swallowed by the wind
In the darkness, broken white sails
Of ships are tangled by the sea,
All words caught in the wind are lies
The waters stir the heavens
Calling out to God,
Who shuttered the window
For the night
Depraved and burned,
The soul beats itself upon the rocks
A bell is rung,
It whispers
And withers away
The painter gashes the shutter
And light bleeds through
As if set ablaze
The screen is in motion
And the vacancy of time
Is felt underneath the framework
Weeping, famished, shadows
Extend their hands,
Reaching for trumpets,
They climb out of confusion
As if they had wings
Saints of Silence
We don’t want to be loved
Truly, genuinely loved
We cannot be loved
Sincerely, wholly loved
Love stifles us
Abandon it
Leave it in the rain
Trifle it
Sell it
Give it to the poets
Who get high off it
Who die because of it
And laugh at them
Laugh as they drink
Themselves to death
Hara-kiri
Laugh as they hang themselves
In small cheap rooms
In the outskirts of cities
seppuku
Laugh at their gods and their goddesses
Their muses, it’s all dust
From when man was young
Dismiss the childish rhymes
Of their silent songs
For poetry is dammed
There is nothing worthy of veneration
Written by the saints of silence
Poetry is Dead
Poetry is dead
They put a bullet in its head
Took away its bread
Poisoned it with lead
Burned the books it read
Censored every word it said
Suppressed every revolution it had led
Cut its veins so it bled
it bled
it bled
Will You Not Sleep? - EP
Lawrence Wilde
Released: January 23, 2020
If I was a wasp
I would sit upon the crust
Of a big ol’ apple pie
I would fear no deadly swap
I’d slurp
that sweetness up
and if a godly human hand came down upon me with death’s wrath
I would sting its plum-like softness and have myself a laugh
while the godly human runs his hand in a cold bath
I’d return to my sweet pie
knowing my bade-like stinger is the reason I didn’t die
so come ye mighty hands
proclaiming your big ends
with oceans turned to sands
and armies like fire ants
i’ll sting you with my poet’s tongue
i’ll sing
and sing
until you recognize the song
recognize that god’s the Sun
and the moon, our savior
the end will not come soon
at least not this afternoon
cause there’s a wasp savoring
this sweet apple pie
and it’s not yet ready to die
The Wasp
Stars
Stars
Silver birds
Millions of tiny knocks upon our door
incomprehensible tongues
There are branches with golden leaves
Outside
hands, eyelashes, wishing to feel
the gentle fire
Wide gleaming galaxies
A summer night
Wounded Rays
A
t
e
a
r
of dayspring dew,
A t r a n s l u c e n t pendant,
S
u
s
p
e
n
d
e
d on a blade
(conceals the universe itself)
The light shatters into millions of pieces within the drop
And every ember of the sun's wounded rays
(a dying fire)
Is a star(t)
Will you not sleep?
The night gently dies
As the bright orange eye
Illuminates our tiny fraction
Of the starless sky
I have not slept
The night unsilent
Through raindrops wept
A secret, for yet another hour
It has kept
And now the day weeps too
For night, a silver phoenix
Is rising from its ashes
And with its blade-like beak
It slashes, and the day begins to
Bleed
It asks me gently
Will you not sleep?
The day now violet
As secret too shall keep
The Kiss
Your kiss is scent of apples
We picked beneath the shade of leaves
Through which the heavy golden sunlight spilled
Onto our skin
Cooled by late-summer wind
And blind to the difference between
The warmth of light and touch
September 2020