Photopoetryblog: My Ismaelillo

"My Ismaelillo" (poem and photo by me)

Muses like to hang upside-down.
Head under feet, they kick at the
moon.

Their happiness arches
over the world they gather in.
Each blossom is an
incandescent idea:
manna from
heaven.

My muse, my Ismaelillo,
doesn't scatter my papers
like capricious Spring,
he speaks with a voice of
dust.

He embraces the garden's
spine, he breaths the living sap
brought down by the setting
sun.

He speaks down to me:
"You are the son of your son
We are all but cut grass.
We fodder the eternal wheel.
Our paths are burning
stars."

I don't understand him.
His words wrap me inside-out like
the lightning-struck birch.
I stare at his burnt
soles.

My Ismaelillo sighs,
his heart floods his head.
He points to the southern
cross.