Lights on the hidden highway (ver 2)

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

I am the king
of flickers and flames,
prince of the sun,
brother of aurora borealis.

I dance like Tibetan prayer flags
on the northern sky,
stretch in orange blossoms
and sun flowers across
the eager horizon.

I am the purveyor of dusk,
son of Stygian nights
and all along I rub you
in the palm of my hand
like salve of the seven proverbs.

I remember once in a sleepy reverie
of cedar and musk oxen―
I wandered the wilderness,
heard the hum and hiss of a lonely meadow,
hidden like honey in a deep, deep cave,
under the icy tundra.

Now I must admit
my love is numb ground,
a frozen lake of silent yearning.
And when I reach into my chest
my fingers stick to it like a gnarled ice clump.

That frigid, dry fist hovers
suspended in the magnet of my hand
as I swirl it over a cauldron
of the notes from my life.
As I swirl, I see each scribble and jot,
they proclaim in a configuration
of tell tale starry nights—

love’s impartial confession
is revealed only on the tiny corners
of flickers, flames, and colored flags
waving on the holy wind.

[Jo Lynn Ehnes]

This could use some editing, Leo and more punctuation in my opinion


I am the king
of flickers and flames,
prince of the sun,
brother of aurora borealis.

I dance like Tibetan prayer flags
on the northern sky,
stretch in orange blossoms
and sun flowers across
the eager horizon.

I am the purveyor of dusk,
son of Stygian nights
and all along I rub you
in the palm of my hand
like salve of the seven proverbs.

I remember once in a sleepy image
of cedar and musk oxen
I wandered in the wilderness,
heard the hum and hiss of the lonely meadow
hidden like honey in a deep, deep cave
under the icy tundra.

And now I must admit
my love is numb ground,
a frozen lake of silent yearning.
When I reach into my chest
my fingers stick to it like a gnarled ice clump.

I hold that frigid, dry fist in my hand
swirl it over a cauldron of the notes from my life.
As I swirl I see each reminder,
they proclaim in a configuration
of tell tale starry night—

that love’s impartial confession
is revealed only in the tiny corners
of flickers, flames, and colored flags
waving on the holy wind.

[Jo Lynn Ehnes]

That's much better.

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

Thank you Ms. Ehnes, I could have never done it without you

[Jo Lynn Ehnes]

Sure you could have, Mr. Briones. You are welcome.

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

Well I meant you're much more patient than me (:

[Jo Lynn Ehnes]

Thank God for editors, eh? Don't think I'm more patient, just more of a perfectionist.