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These are the passages
of eternity
A translation beyond
right versus wrong
The questions of life
bear no relief
nor answer
While the raging heart
beats on...

Inherit the burden
of forgiveness
Your belonging
has tied your hands
Join your heart
to the universe
Heed the true call
of human.
Traveler Tim

No thank you proseletyzers
I once was blind
Now I can think for myself
in love we are eternal
and our flesh will never know decay
I’m glad my hell is my hell
and I don’t have to live through your hell also…
On a positive note
may we all be blessed!
TT
Compare yourself
at finish of day
with that when
you rose at dawn-
in what way
has your resolve changed
or are you disappointed
with what you did
during those demanding hours?
Were you let down
or did you fail to give your best?
Are you regretting now?

Of myself I can speak
too high goals I don't set
my limited talent I acknowledge
competing is not within my league
only quietly I do my level best

when the sun sinks
in the evening
I don't despair or regret:
my duty I've discharged
I'm satisfied, content and glad
towards the next morn
I'll set the same modest target.
'Tryna get to sunny Californy' -
Boom. It's the awful raincoat
making me look like a selfdefeated self-murdering imaginary gangster, an idiot in a rueful coat, how can they understand my damp packs - my mud packs -
„Look John, a hitchhiker'
„He looks like he's got a gun underneath that I. R. A. coat'
'Look Fred, that man by the road' „Some sexfiend got in print in 1938 in *** Magazine' –
„You found his blue corpse in a greenshade edition, with axe blots'
April doesnt hurt here
Like it does in New England
The ground
Vast and brown
Surrounds dry towns
Located in the dust
Of the coming locust
Live for survival, not for 'kicks'
Be a bangtail describer,
like of shrouded traveler
in Textile tenement & the birds fighting in yr ears-like Burroughs exact to describe & gettin $
The Angry Hunger
(hunger is anger)
who fears the
hungry feareth
the angry)
And so I came home
To Golden far away
Twas on the horizon
Every blessed day
As we rolled And we rolled
From Donner tragic Pass
Thru April in Nevada And out Salt City Way Into the dry Nebraskas And sad Wyomings Where young girls And pretty lover boys
With Mickey Mantle eyes
Wander under moons
Sawing in lost cradle
And Judge O Fasterc
Passes whiggling by To ask of young love: ,,Was it the same wind Of April Plains eve that ruffled the dress
Of my lost love
Louanna
In the Western
Far off night
Lost as the whistle
Of the passing Train
Everywhere West
Roams moaning
The deep basso
- Vom! Vom!
- Was it the same love
Notified my bones As mortify yrs now
Children of the soft
Wyoming April night?
Couldna been!
But was! But was!'
And on the prairie
The wildflower blows
In the night For bees & birds And sleeping hidden Animals of life.
The Chicago
Spitters in the spotty street
Cheap beans, loop, Girls made eyes at me And I had 35 Cents in my jeans -
Then Toledo
Springtime starry
Lover night Of hot rod boys And cool girls A wandering
A wandering
In search of April pain A plash of rain
Will not dispel This fumigatin hell Of lover lane This park of roses Blue as bees
In former airy poses
In aerial O Way hoses
No tamarand And figancine Can the musterand Be less kind
Sol -
Sol -
Bring forth yr Ah Sunflower - Ah me Montana
Phosphorescent Rose
And bridge in
fairly land
I'd understand it all -
Death of the pen...

Confused words...
In a matrix of letters...
Scattered anxious...
In a silent hymn...
For morning birds...
Grieved...
For the loss of its fragrance...
And its melodies...

So the pen died...
And the heart of the pen's owner...
And the pages flew away...
Empty and blind...
Without a path for it...
Sad...
For the death of the pen...
And the pen's owner...
Who was...
All its refuge...
Nourishes it...
With the food of letters...
And words...
To dig between its lines...
The taste of love...
And the healing...
For everyone in life...
His heart ached...

The pen died...
And it's owner...

Hazem al ...
most oft, the
wherever I write,
is duly noted,
it is a due,
due you,
and hopefully,
the why I scribe,
arrives ‘pon your eyes
with Steuben glass,
of diamond tooled curettage,
a clarifying visual of
beauty,

but always
with fair detailed precision
is the
when
denoted,
for it is the timing
of the mining the specificity,
of the exact momentous,
a precious decision
taken by you,
when to turn words
of a few seconds
of a heart’s unburdening,
with
an inescapable reminder,
of the
thereabouts & the whyabouts
the very verity of a serious
causality
that parented the
casualties
we call
our poems

join me then,
in the processional
of denoting the origins,
linkage contained therein
to the work we
c r e a t e

*•for in the recording of the reckoning•
•exactitude of the longitude•
•and l’atitude is the truest revelation•
•of yourself•
the week I was home alone in dec 2024;
well I’m guessing you know the exact time
this one was born😉
We were poets,
Once,
Hearts etched upon our sleeve
The lords of our intent,
Words bloomed for all to see.
Each branch of thought considered,
Chiseled,
Whittled to express.
Carving the forest in our likeness
We paved the landscape with our breath.
Woods would sway in idle days
Sunkissed glades lay bathed in gold.
Nights waylaid by dancing maids
Cheap ale and tales of old.
Fires burn, flames unfold.
Though
Embers remember
Tender clutch of the cold.
We tend to forget the bargained,
The sold.
Up rivers and creeks,
Paddles, disowned by the meek,
Cast away to distant shores.  
Glades decay,
Fade to grey.

We become poets once more.
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