I.
Weeping shadows lift branches until they finally bend
and release their grip on glistening fruit -
they fall - unseen, untasted gestures of a nervous night.
Mournful songs tear at the face of an ancient moon.
We see scars that remain uninterpreted in silence.
There is no light ascending
upon grave-strewn hills as we reach for memory.
Only pebbles rattle slowly beneath ribs of sorrowed mountains
as we scale these cliffs drifting over a shuddering sea.
II.
Bitterness becomes unlearned - we find and unveil simple truths
within our surviving songs of strength.
One day, I shall stretch far beyond this limitless sky,
a fiery sunset to be reckoned with.
No more will you hear my voice or read my trembling thoughts -
they will be whispers tossed within the wind,
a rustle of leaves to be forgotten beside your sleepy fire.
Hope was folded and tucked away gently
in the deep drawers of an empty heart, saved for winter's passing rage.
Perhaps you will recall a gentle moment thrust between us -
feather's caress, rather than sword's raging; I wish it to be so.
Let the sky weep, instead,
as we sow these seeds for hopeful harvest to give those in need
the warmth of borrowed sun upon their faces as they dream.
I am here, where you are not - you are there, where I cannot be.
Let me be lifted towards soothing sky,
elevated from wretched reach of sorrow's shadows.
Let hearts mend minds, minds mend bodies, bodies mend this broken night.
The tender entreaties you've pressed into my hands, my flesh, my bones,
have submitted me into stunned silences, lingering long after the final gasp.
If you listen for the tender entrance of dawn, I will shine for you -
the last star glistening before daybreak,
a soft murmur as the moon descends.
III.
Lost in the fiery embrace of language, I am
submerged in the music of words, my heart swirling
with infinite color and sound.
Poetry does not look deeply into my eyes,
then lie to me. It has never betrayed my trust
or left me alone in the night, afraid. It will never perish,
leaving me breathless and aching for its touch.
It wraps itself around me, a blanket I can rely on in the coldest storm,
a hearth I can recline by, understanding its eternal warmth.
It kisses my mouth with spring
when autumn strips the landscape bare of fluttering leaves.
It holds my hand when grief grows too thick with thorns,
brambles around my shuddering bones and brings me nourishment
when I am pale and worn. I am found within its arms, content.
IV.
I am but an illusion, a wisp of smoke drifting on a wild wind,
ethereal and impermanent.
I am nothing like you might imagine,
no wings or halo to adorn my fragile flesh - the only strength I hold
is within my whispered words - yet, they are not mine to claim.
V.
Upon an ancient tide,
poetry drifted into this realm,
breathing calm light into sullen eyes,
beyond the edges of the sky, to fall softly like summer rain.
Cup your hands and feel the wild water's warmth
trickling through fingers, releasing them onto the page;
refresh this parched world with your subtle song.
VI.
I wait, wondering when words of wisdom
will wing their way into my heart -
my eyes are empty of elusive embraces;
I find no message here to soothe my soul.
I watch and wait, for I can do no more -
I long for the moments we shall kindle together,
two matches in search of a flame.
VII.
His eyes, feral with frivolity’s flames, utter mere brilliance
for all to discern - or none. He shimmers,
spent within these moonlit shadows, aghast
at dawn’s imminent arrival, not yet done with night’s rising song.
Unconscionable is the light that encroaches
upon this silent, swaying sanctuary.
Undetermined are the depths to which we shall plunge,
ripened plums dangling furtively
from elegant branches bestowed by surrendered soil.
We shall tarry in this luminous darkness
for as long as it takes love to encircle us within her jeweled crown,
for as long as we deem necessary these fruits of our labors,
shivering orbs of delectable design.
His eyes, banked as embers upon a dying hearth,
hold great heat within sultry spheres - he turns to me,
laughing slowly as we push the sun back beneath the hollowed hills.
Night will not be diminished by the casual approach
of incessant demands, for its powers and charms
are far greater than the coming of day.
VIII.
Bitter secrets stand aloft with ancient knowledge,
gnarling between bark and bite -
lies with black wings flutter. I swing at them
with wicked, fallen branches, burled with ancient bark.
They fall with deception,
such rancid fruit on fallow ground -
they shall nurture sunken roots inside this sullen soil.
They cannot outwit the forest I am becoming,
no matter how deep or dark
their clawing of night.
IX.
Opalescent prayers of morning moan.
We rise like birds into warm wind, glistening sun.
Our feathers lift in flight.
Your hands, my hands
pour ink upon delicate parchment, thick with knowing.
Trees are born within wild arches
of delicately-woven moments.
Your lips, my lips
part, come together, fluid motions of rapture.
Autumn sighs;
we fall like leaves into the forest bed, keening.
We are born in songs of lace,
drifting mist through branches, bare with remembrance.
Smooth and ancient stones,
we glide, water glides around us.
Your eyes, my eyes -
dusky rivers are we, seeking ocean’s roar.
Raner Maria Rilke with Baladine Klossowska, 1923
Silver trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Thank you for your very lovely comment, Jin. 
Thank you for hosting this great contest and for provoking me so deeply and so well, Sweetie. 
