Lukas Alda

“say the honest thing and say the hard thing”
― Jamie Tworkowski, If You Feel Too Much: Thoughts on Things Found and Lost and Hoped For

“Pauline Trio

One could sing October rain,
and one had a gift for plain
chant and prayer, a domain
unsettled by love or its
intimate other. What fits

with this theology no
one dares to say. These twins so
perfectly in tune must know
"the modesty of nature,"
the perfect art and texture

that sustains the other name.
Paris could not be the frame
for loyal Romans, their shame
worn upon their bodies light
as air, and nothing is quite

as endurable as death.
Those who have taken this path
move with an abiding breath.
Such a common dance this dense
intention of love's expense.

Keep this for that special hour
when the Roman drops his sour
gift for abandoned splendour;
et c'est la nuit, the footfall
that troubles that other Paul.


I have learned the felicity of fire,
how in its wake
something picks at buried seed.
Think this a most festive deed,
nature's mistake,
borrowed flare of a village dance, satire
of the sun's course, light you read
through waste, repair. Death had freed
that first opaque
habitation (what a widening gyre),
an aspen ache,
a lustrous scar that might lead
to a hidden grove, or breed
astonishment in its loss; all entire,
a shaping breath proposes its own pyre.

Solitude guides me
through this minor
occasion;
moon is my mentor,
one on a spree.
This notion,
night's philanthropy,
courts my favor.
Devotion,
love's predecessor,
sings its tidy
discretion.
Such gentility
reins all vigor,
all caution.”
― Jay Wright

“A morning-flowered dalliance
demured and dulcet-sweet
with ebullience and efflorescence
admiring, cozy cottages
and elixirs of eloquence
lie waiting at our feet -

We'll dance through fetching pleasantries
as we walk ephemeral roads
evocative epiphanies
ethereal, though we know
our hearts are linked with gossamer
halcyon our day
a harbinger of pretty things
infused with whispers longing still
and gamboling in sultry ways
to feelings, all ineffable
screaming with insouciance
masking labyrinthine paths

where, in our nonchalance, we walk
through the lilt of love’s new morning rays.

Mellifluous murmurings
from a babbling brook
that soothes our heated passion-songs
and panoplies perplexed with thought
of shadows carried off with clouds
in stormy summer rains…

My dear, and that I can call you 'dear'
after ripples turned to crashing waves
after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained
we find our palace sunned and rayed
with quintessential moments lit
with wildflower lanterns arrayed
on verandahs lush with mutual love,
the softest love – our preferred décor

of life's lilly-blossom gate

in white-fenced serendipity…

Twilight sunlit heavens cross

our gardens, graced with perseverance,
bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate
as a morning dove of charm and mirth –
at least with me; our misty mornings
glide through air...


So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry -
of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven
in chandliers of winglet cherubs
wrought with time immemorial,
crafted with innocence, stowed away
and brought to light upon our day
in hallelujah tapestries
of ocean-windswept galleries
in breaths of ballet kisses, light,
skipping to the breakfast room
cascading chrysalis's love
in diaphanous imaginings
delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed
as in our eyes which come to rest
evocative, exuberant
on one another’s moon-stowed dreams
idyllic, in quiescent ways,
peaceful in their radiance
resplendent with a myriad of thought

soothing muse, rhapsodic song
until the somnolence of night
spreads out again its shaded truss
of luminescent fantasies
waiting to be loved by us…

Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged!
I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear,
and on and on and on and on -
as if our hours were endless here…

A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips
exalting transcendent minds
suffused with sunrise symphonies
organic-born tranquilities
sublimed sonorous assemblages
with scintillas of eternity beating

at our breasts – their embraces but

a blushing, longing glance away…

I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn'
before cacophony and chafe
coarse in crude and rough abrade
when cynical distrust is laid
by hoarse and leeching parasites,
distaste fraught with smug disgust
by hairy, smelly maladroit

mediocrities born of poisoned wells

grotesque with selfish lies -

shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping

around our love, as if they rose

from Edgar Allen’s own immortal

rumpled decomposing clothes…

Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry!
can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you

for so long, in my morning imaginings,

through these words, through this song -
‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat,"
but little treats do sometimes last

a little longer; and, oh, but oh,

but if I could, I surly would

keep you just a little longer tarrying here,

tarrying here with me this pleasant morn”
― Numi Who

“If we keep seeing only men as heads of corporations, it starts to seem "natural" that only men should be heads of corporations.”
― Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, We Should All Be Feminists