1674

Not any sunny tone
From any fervent zone
Find entrance there—
Better a grave of Balm
Toward human nature’s home—
And Robins near—
Than a stupendous Tomb
Proclaiming to the Gloom
How dead we are—

Where have all the
  Poets gone

Where are all the
  songs unsung

Where does the mystery
  unravel sublime

Where does the majesty
  reach the Divine

Where does tomorrow
  turn into today

If not for the Poet,
  we've all lost our way

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)

he knows stuff, facts,and        figures

while i am astounded.the sun  comes

out by the drawers.    open they show

me birds and insects.      did you know

they cross their fragile legs      and tie

with cotton threads.

did you know that we are the only         ones

who do not eat insects and that            there

are more species of beetles than              any

other creature. having lost the             sexton

i despair while some                                  tick.

they thought it was the soul from the     dead.





i thought penguins were smaller and         that

an elephant had more teeth than                 that.

you let me hold one;  it was so heavy          so you

show me the tusks too, and we talked about trunks

and headaches.

it was hot there and hungry so i went for lunch,

a sandwich, returned later to look through   the

microscope.the man in the museum helped me.

there are fibres everywhere and when our   coat

comes

off he said there is a shower we cannot see only

imagine.

later i saw a sputnick, yet i liked the mothths and

beetles best. so does the man in the         museum.

sbm.

It is not enough to see
a soul will manifest
what has been sown
immortal purple flame
gnarled roots in stone
the truth of nature
an external blooming
expression of the world

a flourishing vision
voraciously spreads
animating the meadow
with honey-scented breeze
steep slopes sweetened
magnificent blossoms
open lavender wings
to conquer the sky

here the air is thin
windblown seeds
so carelessly thrown
to harsh alpine soil
become willful weeds
persistently untamed
internally unchained
forever wild flowers

All the silence does not mean
You are alone,
It is the world waiting for you
To listen;
And in the darkness you are
Found by the light
Of your hope.

And in the tears of your
Pain you are born,
There you become stronger
And it creates order.

Pick up your flesh as your spirit
Lifts,
And speak your happiness
As if the tip of your tongue
Was the mountain's peak
Speaking at the sky,
The burden is a caged bird
And only the conscious can set
It free.
And sing to yourself so that
You know you are never alone
In your body.

Know that your crazy is beautiful
Because it makes you YOU,
Wear your skin like
Your cozy blanket and cuddle
In the warmth of yourself.
     You are not broken,
But scattered like the night
With pieces like stars shining,
    Open your pain and yourself
To the wound of the world and heal
Whatever you choose.

Life,
forever promising more

Death,
—its own reward

Bangkok, Thailand: January, 2009

The bodies of my body
Are words,
Instantaneous presence
In a vast meadow of echoes,
Each a syllable dancing and forming
The unspoken:

Unspoken hours
Multiplied by mirrors in the mind
Reflecting changes,
The unspoken breeds silence,
The tongue is an element
Of perceptions,
Once spoken it is realised.
I live within the whispers
Populating the spoken vibrations
Carried by air
Bathing in the light.

In all the alphabetical skies
Drinking the nouns of clouds
I spoke my mortality,
Death is the loneliest word;
But not the first,
I found peace when a landscape
Of prayers in the form of poetry
Spoke all things
And I became a word in limbo,
There in my momentary existence
I saw that God
Is the First Word,
Yet God never spoke,
But always listens......

Forgetting to remember,
  remembering to forget

Old choices escape us,
  new decisions unmet

Forgetting to remember,
  remembering to forget

The path to the altar,
  salvations regret

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2016)

Words in my fountain pen,
—bullets in my gun

Blasts of rapid insight,
—ink that doesn’t run

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)