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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

THERE WAS TIME
By Dean Baltesson

 

 

 

 

 

There Was Time

There was a time
when time was in store for us
we discovered a summer
and we wanted love
wanted so much for love and time to arrive.

But then we heard
there never really is time
and nothing is in store
for either of us but "now"
and we never have anything.

But I'm still not sure that
somewhere between the finished past
and the never arriving future
some sort of existence
is supposed to exist.

 


 

 

Verses Of The Endless

They have gone mad
contemplating versions
of the black ocean
still waiting to be written
the blond cliffs before it.

Unexpected waves
founder the words
luring us onto rocks
to become predictions of the past
and memories of the future.

All of this experience
is acknowledged and drowned
with equanimity
in the black ocean
still waiting to be written.


 

 

 

Fragrance

I don't know the tender
of this garden
but I think I understand her
through the drifting fragrance
of the roses she cares for

It is possible she knows
how the speech of roses
can comfort me
beyond  what has become
a short life of long days

I did not know you either
but perhaps I am able
to understand you better
through the fragrance
of your sorrow

Perhaps you knew
that is what I needed
more than any anger
more than your enmity
or your disapproval.


 

 

 

Discretion Dance

I could
if I wanted to
but will not
describe with luxury
the moment we are heart to heart.

A moment before
the furtive pressure
of your hand in mine
when our dance becomes
a metaphor for a dance.

It is only my theory of
what I love most about you
how your lovely face
never wears the sorrows
that pass for passion.

You only laugh
no time for the trappings
of modern love
but leaning into me
wearing me on your cheek.


 

 

 

 

There's A Storm

Flags above the breakwater
hold the wind aloft
while the pavement hastens
to wet reflections.

The shoreline listens carefully
to a curious dark sunlight
the exasperated ocean
shifting out to sea.

The roofs are blue and the sky is not
streets shut their doors
long rows of lingering windows
gathering fractions of exhaling sky.

Always the carefully casual observer
I pause once to avoid thoughts of you
while the city becomes a gallery
of black and white photographs.

 

 

 

About the Author:

Dean Baltesson is a poet and musician living in Victoria BC Canada. He is currently working on a volume of poetry entitled There Must be Words To Describe This.

 

 

 

 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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