In my poetry,
I choose the perfectly wrong word. Life conflicts and conflates over time, So much that Rivers masquerade as murderers, Pilgrims as saints, Songs ruin marriages and That which acquaints, Only distracts and baits.
Like an eye transfixed by a line of roses
That are subdued like a harlot's reclining poses, He sees shapes, one illuminating the next Of different layers of fullness, Of hue and form They all conflate and are completed with the eye.
art, floral, flowers, painting
If you meditate on one poem, you can learn more from that one poem than an entire book read carelessly
Is music more like women weeping,
Or giant glaciers melting It is both, for through all speaks the One. One is a human reaction, like light coursing through A prism, The other Nature's blunt abandon.
What makes music pious,
And women chaste, Is the straining for perfection, In the name of God and his image This force is distinguished from clockwork As every adage can attest. Within the straining Man is this mission, And what is life without purpose? Knowledge from the Lord Is unknowable without effort And we must distinguish The clockwork of the good, From the underlying mission.
Only the mountains stand together As a choral refrain Highlights nature alone and together. The swells as low as nature's valley grasses. The notes reach as high as tundra's barren fields Oh music, How we know with you, and without you Know how you might appear, As a ghost foreshadows To the knowing soul Oh music, only the word of the Lord Could ever match thee For within its secret duality lies the temporal, And in the temporal is the infinite.
Alas, a canvas is the human flesh.
Not created through a mesh, or dribbled on a sponge bereft of the living vessel. Your skin, our skin is one And when we curl up to get some sun, It speaks of art unknown to maker or recipient