I burn what is and is not
It is the mighty fuel of
Creation.  Thus the fool
Becomes wise; the ugly
Beautiful and evil turned
To Good.   You see the
Wood.  You see the fire.
You feel the warmth and
You see the ash.  You are
Puzzled .  This two shall
Pass.  I burn and burn
Like the Son that truth
And the Greater Truth is
A little child lead us still .

The mailman dropped a letter in our box
for Mrs. Tovia Durkan who has not lived

at our address for forty four years
and is now buried in a small cemetery

surrounded by a black wrought
iron fence and glorious mums,

we are now the caretakers of
a letter sent to a Jewish widow

leaving us to feel responsible
to attend the Bat Mitzvah of

12-year-old Sophie Bravermann;
do we bring a gift?

Much of the Truth which we disavow
About ourselves is what is best in us and
In the world.  The hater is the lover at
War with himself in the world of grand
Illusion that seems oh so real if only possibly
So. What can we know of this fierce man
Full of sound and fury executing pretend
Acts-Is he not surrounded by his troupe
Of other pretenders validating his cause?
It seems we have yet to hear God's word
Even His command to Love one Another
Though it has been spoken from eternity
To love one another- it seems a bridge too
Far;  A gift too great-Yet we are already
Unknowingly there separated by only
The knowing.  It is but a thought of mind
Nothing but a thought of mind that of the
Always and forever the everlasting truth.
Yet who of does not say Lord come quickly
Come quickly Lord for we are now ready.

On the verge of sleep and waking
An understanding came to me of
The novelty of a great evil   that I
Could write-I could write!  The joy
Shear Joy of it.  Nothing else was
There that I cared about-treasures
That I had lost, where I was in time
In space all these faded out.  Joy-
Joy Joy of all joys better than wealth
Better than Eros -pure health itself.
I knew it as I said it again and again
I can write   She will help me the
One I loved , my muse; and I will
win her.  Then nothing else will
Matter   Our love will be forever.

Ah the odor of the new mown hay
The good earth makes you want to
Dig down to the roots, get so close
That you can inhale it in its essence
But there is the mistake for the
Source is not deeper, it is right
Before you where the soil meets
The bright air, where the grass
Grows and the wild meadow
Flowers lately bloomed.   There
Is where the ineffable sweetness
Is and lingers yet.  It is that edge
Without height or depth, it is the
Source before the wild there at the
Very frontier of the out law country
And the peaceable homestead is the
Scent you seek to know more of
To understand the unfathomable
Sweetness of this love for another
Sleep and be with me my desire.

It is an odd thing about misunderstandings odd I say
Because they never break even, almost never get re-
Solved can only be forgot and that's hard to do.
Think on it and what's to do;  take the blame 'n you
Might be wrong and be coldly stung again 'n if your
Not to blame can saying your sorry ever help.  No
It takes grace and about that what can be known and
Not be smart  alecky.  No, misunderstanding is a hard
Nut to crack and hard to forget and never remember
Again and if you do remember well there is no sense
In that now than there was before.  So I may be wrong
but I'll say it anyway: Forget me not my old friends ...


With inspiration from Robert Frost and Edith Wharton

What ever you want
You will want more
Or want less unless
Peace speaks enough
Peace next to the last?