POETRY

Coming Soon...

Maybe If...

Maybe love is a…

And we are the…

I tend to think it’s…

And we are only here to…

Then of course no one really…

I guess if we all…

Then maybe…

© Andre Ferinate

Mythos Untamed

This will be the year that wild horses will come to the gates of your dreams.

Their midnight black Eyes will draw the moon to the open prairies of your sleep.

This will be the year you defy windows and doors and boundaries and forge new frontiers

in freedom's land.

 

The air will move about like soft velvet curtains around the contour of your desires. 

Everything you ask for, everything you reach for is galloping, glorious and invisible,

is waiting for your unbridled surrender.

 

This could be the year that you finally let go and fall into your own arms,

embrace your furious beauty and fly like a winged horse over cities and towns,

the steeples of churches and old weathered barns. 

This could be the time for the moon to show you your heart through the pure and unbroken windows of her eyes.

    

This could be the year you break from the herd and dash to your mythos untamed.

The sun will flood your heart with a golden storm of light, 

you will be your own horizon, 

you will be the shape of night. 

© Andre Feriante

Slender Gods

I got dressed in the dark this morning while you 

were sleeping, I didn't want to steal you from your dreams.

 

I'm going to a place far away, I'm going to stand

on a bridge with nothing but a blank sky in my mind.

I'll remain suspended in the in betweens until 

the wind spins my whimsy to another land.

 

When you awake and feel the weight of my absence  

on the bed, push open your window and see my face in the

junipers, hear my footsteps over the rustling leaves.

 

If there is a place where my voice was held, extend your

hand in a velvet glove, let my speech brush against

your fingers.

 

Lift my voice with yours, to the silvery phosphorescent 

ledge, know that our words will bloom like iron roses,

swaying towards the moon like slender gods in forest

groves.

 

Know that our bedroom mirror was a book of glass pages,

and If there is place where gypsies and angels go to read the light,

turn your face to the sun.

 

The warmth is my hand, 

the tear is my refrain. 

© Andre  Feriante

In This Voluntary Light

In the house of music,

ears, eyes take notice,

humanity is searching,

threading a filament of hope

from heart to star,

sending out the boomerang of mystery,

awaiting the wild horse of sudden returns.

 

Gamblers and angels alike,

love says 'drop your guard and dive to the center'

the jewel of our eye is mirrored in our sameness,

the fingers of the earth are precious, young and old. 

honor is a trumpet, a sword held back,

sound the reversal of hatreds and the avengers rage.

 

Walk with me on this avenue of music, in this voluntary light,

lift your beauty higher and remember the dove of alchemy’s sight.

© Andre  Feriante

By the Sea

I bought a little place by the sea

with a dirt road and no radio waves,

an old man who had died not long

before had lived there

 

Sometimes strays would wonder by

and the mornings were pleasant,

The old man wrote books about the waves

and he only had one love but she was from

a story long before

 

Crows made their art and pine needles fell

in the sand, at sunset I would walk barefoot

on the shore with my thoughts in the salty air,

thinking I shall die here too and they can lay

my body by the orange tree

 

Once inside I would take some Bourbon and sip

thinking of schooldays and first times,

closer to my dreams the wind would invite herself

easy like a lover in a window

 

I count the waves, shades of my life drift upward

and the moon rests her light on the

blueness of my forehead

© Andre  Feriante

Mary

Mary practiced her cello on the hardwood floors,

after the divorce the symphony took her in,

her family and kids were frayed at the edges,

her husband lost his days through the windows of banks.

 

Her hair would brush the body of the cello,

sonatas and partitas metronomically filled the spaces

in afternoons. 

Mary's hand held the bow of ebony and horsehair,

between her fingers the piano rang,

all the while her other life would run the pain in her mind.

 

Behind curtains she danced her thunder away,

in each pulse of thought the dust of family, wife, mother

and world pushed at her heart.


The warm, guilty voice the cello had stolen her,

the luscious tones strolled her solitude.

 

She always wanted to be a child again,

running in a field where the sun never sets

and the music never ends.

 

She always knew her soul had compartments

and houses had wings.

© Andre Feriante

Self Portrait

I will paint for you a large guitar, 

I will fill it with the fading cities of yesterday

with the ancient streets I frequent in my sleep.

 

I will paint the neck as delicate as the back of a woman

along the strings I will spin invisible strands of joy

long filaments of moonlight.

 

I will paint myself as the arms of a tree

slowly embracing the guitar in gradual surrender

to the heavy beauty of stars.

 

My face will be painted in the eyes of clouds

drifting yet paralyzed in stillness

the music I will not paint for you

for it is the thunder you harbor in your own soul

and the sound the same I will leave open

like a hole in the sky

for the transcendence of your desires.

 

My hands I will paint as if they were real

like raven's wings, blurred in grayish reds

on my shoulders I will paint a sweet blanket of rain

and on my chest the cares of fallen lovers.

 

The guitar I'm wrapped around 

is the body of the earth I walk through

one song at a time.

 

I will paint my dreams as curious arrows

piercing my mind, my fingers, my strings.

 

I will paint this guitar, sounding inside my soul

across the fine lines of years

the glare of life itself will hypnotically 

come and go, like sunrise and sunset.

 

You will see the ghost of a Spanish dancer

painted on the backside of bedroom mirrors

mysterious splashes of death and reunions

quiet on the walls.

 

I will paint this guitar for you until I am old

I fill it with the sun of Africa and the spirit

of Asians moons.

 

And still I will walk outside the frames of my dreams

collecting remnants from melancholy minds...

stepping out of this world from time to time.

 

When the last breath of my hand comes

to rest on the most soundless of songs

I'll paint open a window and

disappear into the slumber of the uncontained

© Andre Feriante

Confession

I am fragile about you

I am powerful about you

I am a hurricane about you

sometimes a timid swallow

there is lioness in your eyes (almost gold)

a clustering of Tristanesque clouds for me

your presence more precious than invisible things

for me your smile makes pale the moon

against the darkness I dream into you

my thoughts are sweet blades

permitting your compulsions

I will be your doctor and your child

divulge your wounds

and spill yourself on me

break into a rain and fall into my embrace

pour yourself against my constant face

I will hold your weight until your body

caves open in joy

my porcelain arm will shatter from your suffering

 

Yet still I will hold you with the

pieces of all my pieces

broken and content

I am moved about you.

© Andre Feriante

Liquid Geometry

We go down for air in our dreams,

swimming in a slumber of dormant tendencies, 

a beehive a brainwave.

 

Down there is the melting guilt of sunken deeds,

the reverse of languaged words, of twisted tongues,

each night we die again,

and the phase of the calendar turns.

 

From the square roots of centuries to the prime numbers of holy moons,

we exist inside ourselves, helpless and fleshy with our bones,

we make things, like love and glue and castles.

 

We have picnics with yellow jackets,

we take long walks from isolation,

we wrap it up and string it on a memory wreath,

a momento, a nostalgic sigh.

 

There have been actual holidays with forgotten friends,

haunted photographs with frozen smiles,

these too are dreams,

yesterday has vaporized,

today we take a solid form and soon return to mist.

 

Pressing through and reaching out,

sensation fulfills itself,

and we lick the roofs of our individual mouths.

 

We see time through the eye of the needle,

we stitch meticulously,

the events, the rag dolls,

and we kiss our lovers blind.

 

There is a mysterious wall behind the eyes,

we fall back in our flavors, give birth, have fights and awake to war.

 

The armies of children play blameless games in the wild fields,

and there is no end to this;

we are complete in our worldliness.

 

If only we could link the circles in our dreams

connecting my hopes to yours,

the evident to the intuitable,

the ethereal to the embraceable.

© Andre Feriante

Untitled

I almost put “I love you”

in words last night,

but I held my tongue

and kept it in my eyes

© Andre Ferinate

© 2020 Andre Feriante                             email: AndreFeriante@gmail.com                                                          P.O. Box 19864, Seattle, WA 98109