Please put a brake
on my writer's greed
and let me patiently await
Your promptings when and where
You, in all Your sagacity,
choose fit.

With this darting pen
the meandering streams
of my associations
become clear rivers of thought

before being engulfed
by a sea of unadorned paper.

A colossal ****** -

a symphony crashing
in the heart's mind
and in the mind's heart;

into a momentary harmony
and unity of mortal being.

Sooner or later everything gets played out
and the music stops -

childhood almost before it has begun
with youth rushing on to it's doom
and adulthood  showing some semplance of maturity
before middle-age despondency.

Wise old age reveals itself as a grinning caricature
reflecting comically the way things should have been.

In this silence
there is not the hush of a breeze,
not the purr of a cat,
not the hum of summer bees
and not the wiping of feet on a familiar mat.

In this silence
there is the absence of fear,
the quenching of thirst
and the quiet eating of hungry bread.

In this silence
there is the wise old look that says so much.

This silence is and is not
the lapping of gentle waters on the shores of a lonely lake;
is and is not the cries of gulls
hovering above the cliffs of etenal seas.

In youth
my impatience was pure
and my ignorance supreme.

All advice was treated as criticism
or as a declaration of war
on the sanctuary of my little toe.

To be human
is almost everything
in itself -

and is the happy-go-lucky mess
that still turns this planet around.