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Bernard J. Gieske


I am 70 years old and reliving much of my past experiences through poetry both reading and writing a lot of it. I especially savor the poems of Robert Penn Warren, Steven R. Cope, Jane Kenyon, Stanley Kunitz, and others which are thought provoking. I am at the stage where I want to share some of my poems with a wider audience.







She rises
Neptune’s daughter from the deep
warming to the movements of a symphony
for an instant poised in Botticellian style


butterfly nymphs windmilling her hair
cascading over her shoulders no longer bare
water droplets hugging her breasts and lips
tinted with the whisper of a smile.


The rising sun keeps peeping
 from behind the drifting clouds
over the lips of rounded mounds,
early rising dawn blinking, blushing in Flamingo skies.


Deep within me springs forth Tartini’s trill.
I like the way she moves and still


shrouded in Eden’s misty gown
she slips atop the bosom of  mother earth
in hues of Sappho’s blue and Ireland green
water cascading in crescendos from her hips.


Within his forge deep in Averno’s mouth
Vulcan grumbles and rumbles over Venus’ love affairs
while he molds a virgin shape
licked by the tongues of the ambers all aglow with fire.

She is coming.           She is coming.       
She is coming along Bolero’s path,
whispering within the language of her maidenhood,
harp-strummed notes skipping pianissimo around her feet.


Nature’s rondoing within me
Eden’s language of yore.
My heart strings drumming in syncopations in Fantasia Land,
my dreamhead cycloning in whirlpools of Eden land.


I listen and strain to hear but fail to
fathom the song of her maidenhood.
But I like the way she moves,
something in the way she moves (me).


Vulcan’s hammer now clangs louder and louder
faster and faster the amber fire reaching higher and higher
finally erupting, climaxing in a volcanic cloud,
the echo of Vulcan’s hammer thunders across the sky.


Drifting now
drifting         drifting
into the twinkling twilight,
the sun preparing its goodbye


fading into the shadows
snatching arpeggios from her feet
her footfalls diminuendoing echos in the mist


of my sleep which I embrace in delight of
liking the way she moves.





“It’s beautiful to be”
 - Pastoral, Geoffrey Nutter


In the wild air


No waves of sound
In the ultraviolet
deep within the being


within you ––––        accepted


even for that moment
                               of knowing


It happened –––––for a moment
in your inside joy


a nuclear implosion


         your circle


       not changing
         not ending

oasis of trackless snow


      past and future
         all present


Quietness  -  oneness  -  yet not alone.





i have no name
i’m never the same
i can’t change places
or save faces


i come and go — never with
i’m just there —
springing up anywhere
i come and then i’m not


i am not me
i am not you or we
neither they nor them
these will not fit
those aren’t it


i don’t know who i am
whether i can be seen or heard
read or said
touched or felt
tasted or sensed


nobody knows me
nobody wants me
nobody claims me


maybe i’m just  ——  nonsense








copyright © Bernard J. Gieske