Author: Jeffrey L. H. Naylor

If ever I could wish to swim among the stars,
If ever I could dream to touch the rings of Saturn,
If ever I could trust life long enough to understand,
If ever I could stride like a giant from galaxy to galaxy,
If ever I could hope to build a tower above the clouds of heaven,
If ever I could do anything good for all of humankind,
If ever I could believe in the promise of a rainbow,
I would know that you and I could circle the moon,
Catching cosmic beams of love and hope and promise.
Like a child who circles the lawn chasing fireflies;
If ever I could…
I would!

I,
In spite of my unfulfilled dreams,
In spite of my unbearables borne,
In spite of my unconnected pieces,
In spite of my uncaptured peace,
In spite of my unendurables worn,
In spite of my unexpected redeem,
I,
unrelentingly,
unremittingly,
unyieldingly,
unwaveringly,
emerge
on
the
other
side
of
the
shadow.

I was lonely.
You were lonely.
Loneliness consumed loneliness,
Creating loveliness.
And that is us sweet Moon,
Pure loveliness!!

I emptied my heart to find you.
Do you know where I left everything
Last night when you were sleeping?
I tried not to stop you from keeping
An understanding of my meaning
Or the acceptance of my leaning
Towards the mark of true love gleaning.

Air floating sinuously sets in motion the Asian morn. It
Puffs hot kisses to awaken me to an exotic world where
Ancient temples speak to the daylight of heaven’s skies.
Lazy moves, silent and yielding to the moment,
Compel me to give up the good visions of sleep
And rise up to breathe the air of one day further.
Full of motion and movement, songs of love
Sung from every soul that emerges come alive,
Making life expel its mysteries one more time
In the land of which I dream: it is the land of ancient
Kings and riddling tongues proclaiming the matchlessness
That is in every sweet moment when I dream of Thailand.

She, and her smile, are truly
The fulfillment of my dreams.
However teasing and fluctuating they may be,
However enlightening and overshadowing they may be,
However inspiring and deflating they may be,
However guiding and misleading they may be,
However focused and opaque they may be,
However happy and sad,
I become!

i love you Prima…so how do i tell you…?
can i show you the depth of my love?
how is it possible to give you roses
when they bow and droop before your smile?
how is it possible to give you sweets
when bitter is their taste to your kiss?
how is it possible to give you anything
when your love is brighter than the sun
and reaches higher than the bluest sky?
how is it possible to give you love or
barter love to you when you are the only star
of every night and the twinkle of every eye?

homo sacer, sacrificial man
inconsequential to the matter at hand
culture of violence, and violence begets
no self-consciousness is his regret.

a sovereign gaze of fear
in his own unclear sphere
are separate and separable zones
above and below his throne.

the difference between the real,
espoused by his supposed appeal,
and the fake demeanor he assumes
is one day sure to be his final doom!

Might beyond our solutions
Becomes more constrained,
When we try to walk
Where only God walks.

For God is so far beyond,
What wonder, when He responds!
Stand in the glory of His train,
And use His Might in substitution.

The day is a celestial dark, and charred with empty dreams.
I fear piteously to learn that that which I yearn to reap–is
A future blackened with heartless hope. My reality’s sleep
Awakens to find a melancholy dream as all that’s left of the
Bright of today’s light. Its Melody, so pure, lingers on the fringe
Of authenticity; it is a clever, living, breathing, surrealistic soul.
We reach for it in the intra-cosmic arena of the inner-self
Alone to travel as our Mind’s Eye turns inward. We are
Delivered from the ‘Others’ of hesitation’s sigh. Thus shall
The gift of this unsullied Mystery stir the soul, enliven
Dreams of promise. Then, shall there be apposite placement of
The Cedillas beneath those difficult, banal words. No longer
Marked by the dark, polar-cold that scripts the
Malodorous, solemn task of renewing a faith. Defiance hinders.
Others will claim their own diacritic mark. Their doubts hinge
On the fallacy that such events are transitorily short, without
Righteous reclaim. The untruth! It is the ventures born in the
Genius of a vitreous epistemology that burn bright the light of truth.
No armor or valor to sway tomorrow’s aim, all things coeval.
Reclaim, surreal melody, malodorous mystery. . .all truth’s aim!