24 HOURS

Read in reverse --
cupped wingspan of a flying cloud
drinking the brightness of an evening sky ;
Blazing cascade of northern lights, shadow
spaces rare, unguessed meaning of all
that pours longing into empty places of the night.

There are nebula perhaps cradling new stars
in heaven’s secret constellations, radiance
tender and consumming --

then, a drop of sun, goss-layered gossamer
over a rippled veil of shade and light,
dawn shifting irridescense into milky
pink rose refreshes the fraility of soul.

Day’s ardent color makes promises
fading gradually into the curve
of softening dark-- the silver curve
of early moon or the pyrotechnics
of a falling star.

24 hours, a presence constantly moving on,
a marriage of day and night when earth,
moon, sun and we align.

ABSENCE

Absence is a lost langage
inaccessible to the present.
Memories arise like a mirage
and the answer to each question
is no answer, although each unknown feather
that falls tips the balance of world .

Absence is a langage reflected
on waves, foam fragile as silhouettes
of angels blown by the wind,
an illusion held somewhere in the past
we shared.

Where do they go, all those lost words,
names, symbols, leaving behind the plea
of take me with you to your bright
forever ?

I am a spirit electric
begot by the gods of random,
mothered by chaos.

I live viciously,
eat forbidden fruit,
wreak havoc wherever
I go.

I am wild sea
I am dust-storm,
tsunami, volcano,
steel-breasted, fire-armed
on the outside.

I am petal-hearted,
honey-breathed,
cloud-kissed,
gold-showered
on­ the inside.

I weave multi-colored magic
onto mountains, spray deserts
with quivering star-drops.
expect impossibly wonderful
outcomes.

I want to die like
that old Chinese poet –
drunk, drowned in a pond,
trying to embrace the full moon.

If art is a March pigeon,
Spring is a terrace buttressed by hope.
If art is a green brigade,
Winter has finally surrendered.
If art is a spider’s web,
Nature’s an expert designer.
Art must be somewhere between sea salt and sky breath,
Splitting the clouds like feathered arrows.
Art is the magic of abstract,
A question of connecting the dots.
Art is a surreal awakening
From a living dream.
Art is stargazing astonishment, unashamed pleasure,
A reach for the extraordinary.
Art is a rose garden singing celebration.
Art is a religion of invented prayer.
If art is almost grasping the essential,
Leaving the end in suspense,
Then all humans must be artists.

Ever since that afternoon, artichokes,
To me, are creatures of the sea.
They’re a chosen species, daylily stars
With softened points, salt-lipped,
Afloat in olive oil, something
So Mediterranean about them,
Aqua-spirals, flat wings of green-white light,
As if their closed leaves could tie up
Landlocked clouds. Egg-shaped, heart-shaped,
Protective layers overlapping, they speak
In wet kisses, gently caressing the tongue
With a blizzard of soft flavours.
They embrace all wines, distract all meats,
Flirt with bread, politely invite dessert –
Sweetheart vegetables willing to be dressed
In bikinis or burkas, soft-centred lovables,
The most delicate of palettes seduced
By their siren song.

Sometimes, when stillness of the heart
is not enough, mind extends to landscape
unbounded and floats like a helium balloon
in the depth of sky.

It begins with streaks of light, the naming
of trees, ponds open like black blossoms,
misted lakes, the sea placing its many fingers
on the endless revels of gold bays.

The road may be mossy and slippery
as old stones ; rows of summer
swallows may rise from random wires.
As mountain strider or keeper of forests,
let love lead me south to warm nights
where stars burn through clouds.

Let the voyage end in tender words,
perhaps a clasp or a kiss. Let the faithful
ebb and flow of time join the fragments
of me in exile from myself.

Autumn –the season named –
the end of each loud day
a wave in the voice of time.

The night’s gently gravity
reaches out for your shadow,
nostalgia’s chilled pattern
of longing.

Autumn and the land
is tinged with blood.
Time slows to a quiet
stream of moments.

Moonlight’s camber
turns to foreboding,
memory like pond-tarp
rises to the surface,
muddied forms escaping
capture.

Autumn’s moist gown of leaves,
the soft clock of earth signaling
its first chill. Your presence
lingeres in the beauty of decay.

Still, there are crevissesof light –
although a moss mosaic of sadness
inhabits the heart’s waterways,
in fragile drops of dappled light,
hope shines through.

Inspired by E.E. Cummings

This universe –
Timelessly alive
Strictly innumerable
Life’s path laid out
With careful intention.
Then suddenly a blunder
Called death unkindly persuades
Every word echoed in the sky
That it may unspring a poem,
Pitching each metaphor
To senselessness.
Still, it’s the beauty of eachness
That heals immeasurable night,
Restores the silent truth of earth
Where no particle is irrelevant,
Awakens the first sleeping wonders
Of spring’s green gratitude
And transforms dream miracles
Beyond reason into the eagerness
Of possibility.

Beauty, fierce as desire, is perched
on the limits of longing –
There is an upward soaring
where simple delight turns
to sunlit brilliance.

Beauty is grasped
by a mind that fabricates
the abstract but appreciates
the real.

There is wonder
in the beauty of
the winds, woods
and water that glow
on the edge of earth.

Beauty is portrayed
in the smooth, smiling
contenance of youth,
the delicate alliance
of dark soil and milky sky
and seasons that turn
to golden ages, widening
to wilderness, clear and
unexplored, filling pages
of solitude with poetry.

Beauty is being held
in the arms of dawn,
knowing that dusk’s
splendid sunset is
not far away.

Maybe the bed lies about the garden,
Seeing it from a one-eyed supine pose.
The garden, ***** by winter, stands naked
Outside the window, looking in.
The bed is comfortable, complacent;
It doesn’t much care about ragged orphans
Or abused women.
Perhaps it should remember it’s made of wood,
Same as the trees, though it’s covered with
A springy mattress, happy sheets, cottony quilts.
The garden has known spring abundance
And will know it again. The bed has known
Nightmares, sickness and may even learn
About death. In summer the bed will be stripped,
The garden dressed in luscious fragments
Of leaf and petal, hung in perfect equilibrium.
The bed and the garden, like body and soul,
Each needs to remember their debt to the other.

Being grows in earth
and the water of the womb
where heaven pools
its special nourishment.

Body, once born,
is a lone, flying crane
resisting with an energy
of singular intention.

But mind must live
in the world’s garden
among a few bright blooms
of insight, many thorns
of righteousness,
gnarled roots of rage.

The body’s path is straight,
narrow, its promise certain.
But mind must choose
at each which path to take.

BELL

Sound spreads like a cold splash
trembling with high connections.
The exuberant voice of the bell
shatters the hush of air.

Great clouds seem to echo,
startling dreamers, breaking
the deep tone of somber thoughts.

There is a wondering at sound,
ringing out the morning mist
or the last remains of day.

There is a coloring of time,
bulging outwards like a
courier with urgent news.

Why, bell, do you remind us
of the passing hours when
mind, listening to a long-lost
song, only wishes to travel
backwards.

BIRDS OF PARADISE

Flying wings of orange
forever in a take-off pose,
the pilot a tiny dot of blue.
Slender green stems,
their graceful dance
enhanced by every
breath of breeze,
pointed leaves’
aggressive message:
do not pluck, stand back,
admire, roots invisible,
anchoring each plant
to earth, each flight
a phantom, the eye’s
illusion, each bloom
a tiny fire, born on air,
beyond the pain of living,
beyond death’s denial,
their free infinities
expressing all our
hearts’ desires.

Immensity of spring –
Threshold of summer –
A silver wing flutter
Among the olive branches,
Speechless aviary chittery,
Deep, soft pang of honeysuckle
Under a downpour of silk-white light,
Quick, disturbing visions in and out
Of sight, darning the break of day.
Ideas, feverish as bees, ripen
To the summer warmth.
Urged to their fullness,
They burst into a heavy flow
Of words, sweet as aged wine.
This is bounty of the season—
No more winter stretching
Bare arms out to catch late snow,
But a riot of roses whispering a satin “yes”
In a frenzy of letting go,
Of living regretless in the now.
,

Silence spirited with teal
and an hour when nothing need happen,
Time gone beyond unanswering light,
hurling unheard echoes, slipping away
on the wind.

Notice the decomposing day,
the baffled bee meandering
among the season’s blossoms.

Follow the moon’s blood-red beams
and the goddess gone to fire.
She’s left cryptic messages
on the clouds for those who
care to read.

It’s useless to expect a bath or
of rainbows, a rush of angel wings.
Instead, treasure each small drought
of tenderness, pronouns love’s name
softly, and be forgiveness of the butterfly.

Sudden air full of winged seeds
Blowing froth on the dawn.
Season of simple joy
Wizarding light from the east.
Yellowing grass yawning
In the last of days of dry,
Zippy insect life slowing
To a tumble buzz, heavy
As sleep, just before sepia dreams
Begin to comfort the earth,
Fruit pungency replacing heady miasmas.
It’s like leaving a bright clearing for a forest
Sanctuary, light dimmed by cool shadows,
The gentle change of one life-state
For another.


,

CITY OF THE SOUL

Dawn, take my sorrows.
I tired of being a passenger
of the dark.
Make me awash with sensation.
Let me forget despair.
Let me feel the city’s vibration.

I want to be a carefree wanderer
upon wide open boulevards,
piercing the veil of shadows’
oblivion, following a series
of endless crossroads
towards some conflagration
of urban lights, captured
by the conjurer of thoughts
agility.

I reach into all the hidden spaces
searching for the essence of myself.
Only there in the vastness of starless
unconsciousness can I perceive
that celestial expanse of light.

Climate change

Early autumn, sun’s reticence, too much rain.
Dying roses fall in clusters as fungus pools
in gardens, wetness levening the green.

Frozen mist tightens the air as earth
exhales upwards into a wet bowl
of pale sky, fluid haze heavy with
elements, molecues of water swept
into the gray.

When did autumn come gently,
casting its shadow on an empty bench ?
When did the coolness of air feel
refreshing after summer’s heat ?

Seasons, now violent as war
have overcome the world
with drastic inondation,
acid rain, toxic mud.

How can we look at sunset’s
volatile sky without fear of
tomorrow ?

The alarming realm of the vertical,
so immence a hue – a blue
of such majesty that wonder
comes over all.

The magical universe of color –
linear filigrees of tone sheened
on unlikely surfaces : clandestine
rose and violet, a shout of crimson,
a whisper of pastel.

Sun-honeyed pine trees,
wind-silver rumpling of fields
falling into manes of lustre,
galleries of varying shades
fading into each other,
mirroring a marriage
of likenesses, mauve
through cerulean.

Tinted pavilions of firmament
overhung with luminescense
where mind is lost in the
amazement of impermance .

It’s still early in the season
but longing lives in me
for the warmth of sun-touched days
for the songs of greening fields
for a tangle of butterflies
for a rainbow slanted up to the sky.

I long to lie with my nose to the earth
to smell the grass rising
to feel the freshness of dewdrops
to listen to the hum of life awakening.

Let April’s elevator
return birds to their places in the trees
increase the barble of growth
polish the heavens with soft white clouds .

Let the basket of winter sorrows flow past in the river,
Let the days lengthen and explode into growing light,
Let renewal sink into the earth deeply like gentle rain,
Let us come out of the darkness into the newness of spring.

Chattering birds, not colourful
But friendly in their own grey way.
They make a lot of noise,
Not really saying much
But making a big effort
To be understood.
So willing to help
But not to commit,
Each proposal embraced
By a disclaimer; they mean well,
Of course, they do.
Their motivation can’t be faulted,
But there’s need for a psychic, a mind-reader,
For everything’s insinuated, nothing discussed.
So many points pronounced, declared,
Underlined, exclamated but not communicated,
Feeling no empathy, we all put on our coats
Against the cold draft of confusion.
.

It’s the essence of sensation,
the elastic feel in the body,
spiritual flame in the heart,
the wild movement that
lights up earth and sky.

It’s the centrifigal force
that radiates mood’s sunshine,
the moment of unexpected torque,
infinitely complicated yet simple
in its sublime resonance.

Each step is gifted,
each step an idea,
a word unspoken,
a poem in the making.

For dance is flux and motion,
a viseral trance, a carefree discipline
of endlessness promising bright
tomorrows until the final release
beyond earth-bound dimensions.

As twilight deepens, angst begins.
In a tender light of lavender
your image may appear,
in fields or woodlands,
among tall tombs where
tension hides in silence.

Wings of angels seem to glide
on ice across the sky, and in
a drone of babble, some strange
arcane language, is this how the dead speak?

We live in these erratic times,
searching for depth through
the opposite of being. How can
we say that life will find a way?

Perhaps through these black holes,
there are other luminous worlds.

There are always waiting spectors
as morning’s penumbra ripples
where chants of the mind play
to an audience of one.

They shape the mist as dawn
expands and connects each breath.
The weight of darkness lifts to
the edges of ether, emptying
the private hole of self.

Slowly, the hours
open to the hovering light,
the soft burn of the sun.
Like an instant between
seasons, the clot of darkness
dissolves.

There on the edges of wakefulness,
unexpected color breaks open silence,
dispersing the night’s assembly of ghosts.

The world is made of mystery
as wild as the dunes
where secret spirits gather
and grasses whisper psalms.
My guesses cannot run as fast
nor can ideas fly
to catch all that amazement
floating upwards toward the sky.

This universe enormous,
its distances unknown.
Its stars and moons and planets
live in their spacious home,
but all that can belong to us
is life and death alone.

Night poet moves the wand of winter moon
Across puddles of angry sky.
Day poet soaks up the dark
With white dregs of frosty grass.
Season’s poet is the cold of now,
And warm’s imagined past,
The rustle of wind in leaves,
Telling secrets of other worlds.
The poet of land masters gravity
Of earth and air.
The poet of sea tests colours and textures,
A seamstress of liquid cloth.
The poet of moods fills hours
With inconstancy like a crow pecking holes
In a discarded b-flat mattress or
A lark perched on a bright cloud,
Overflowing with allegro.
The poet of dreams holds
All the world spellbound
In a theatre of slow motion.
The poet of real things
Makes magic out of socks and onions.
The poet of beauty speaks of what is.
The poet of love speaks of what might be.

Your dream-self came to me
with its familiar night music,
on delicate note at a time.
I listend to imagination’s tongue,
chanting the mantra of being.
Entranced by moon color,
I measured the distance of
meteors between your planet
and mine.

Dawn came reluctant
into the fog of high trees,
into the speckled dark
of mountain peaks.

Suddenly, you were there,
an unforgettable fragrance
of light, like blossoms
blowing through clouds,
a butterfly dream that
would last forever.

The sea – calm, immense as space
and shining – one instant in time
with breath rushing in before me,
flagstone path turned silver
in the moonlight –

Your hair in the wind -
gently picking up the sand.
It’s hard filling the days
without you.

But the nights fill themselves
the velvet peace that is yours
and soon will slip into me.

EMOTIONAL TSUNAMI

It strikes without warning
savage and primeval --
the menacing obscurity,
the turbulent obsession,
the rubble of confusion
leaving bays of impasse
in the aftermath of fallen trees.

It overwhelms, it devastates,
rising in a crescendo of moods.
It scatters broken dreams,
lost in the search for belonging.

Is there a way out of darkness?
The cadence of the soul seeks
a surface of calm renewal,
freed from captivity.

It sweeps away the broken pieces,
clearing the sky of clouds,
expanding the colors
of returning peace.

A small hole widening the giant picture,
One dominant trait diminished,
One altered gene, one missing link.
Iron tree leafless, perfect wing damaged,
Bumble bee caught in the chemistry of death,
Coocoo’s song silenced to a memory,
Acid bath dissolves in soil, lakes opaque
With filament.
Lives that touched and changed each day
Now pushed to the edges of void,
A fatal pause where “is” becomes “was”
And it’s suddenly too late to negotiate.

Time slips imperceptibly away,
hours in shambles beyond belief.
I grasp at spring green,
the hardest hue to hold.
I am intimate with blossoms
burst from stems in a garden
of all moods.

I gaze at wheeling in the sky
on eagles’ silent wings
as shadows trouble the sunset.
The breeze rests in stillness.
The pond mirrors the clouds.

I exist on air –
only the evening knows my thoughts,
fragrant nights falling lonely away,
missing you in the cold clarity of moon.

FIREWORKS


A summer night and fireworks
break dark’s quiet whisper,
drowning fragile moonlight.

First a flickering, then
a blossoming of color--
wild and illicit –and
the air’s askew with booms,
delirious with fiery chaos
as a million man-made stars
tumble across sky.

A veil of smoke creates
a glorious illusion --
the art of pyrotechnics.

A stolen moment’s exaltation
without the wariness of danger.
As fire jewels dwindle to obscurity,
there is a strong spell of reversal.
What seemed like revelation fades.

Universe returns to mystery
and mind to world’s reality.

Perhaps there is a dragon palace somewhere
flowing with emerald scales, where ice-colored
sunlight rings in the wind, where soundless
mountains hide their bare faces in purple shadows.

This world, a transparent garment ,
blushes with the seagull’s shriek,
pales with the dove’s soft coo,
brightens with seasons singing
newness, clouds with the heart’s
sorrows.

The music of colors invades
the senses, scarlet sopranos,
jade’s deep base, distant ringing
of silver planets. rainbow banners
that gossip in the wind.

An arpeggio of colored sounds,
each unique in its own tone,
from the lullaby
of sunset to the ****** of
dawn’s glacier blue.

Seeing, hearing, naming,
assembling, each sensation
to its own order of allure.

FLYING

Step through the door of sky
full of curiosity, seeking
something precious beyond earth,
an ephemeral world of amazement.

The wind’s voice shouts a warning--
you’re absent from reality,
for world is a mix of weight
and lightness for wings
useless in one atmosphere
are alive in another.

Take the humming bird,
nature’s helicopter,
or the crane, fragile
on the gound yet
infallible energy
in the air, or the
butterfly filling earth
and sky with colored gloss.

When the great, joyful recklessness
of flying returns to celebration
of the world, something of the wild,
perfect air remains, if just for one
moment.

I learned the language of words
but also that of signs –
which lies are welcome,
which truths unspeakable,
which sentences explode,
which soothe like a cool breeze.

I whispered to hide my foreign vowels.
I learned to be seen and not heard –
to soothe my joints, white with anger,
and the yellow bruises of shame.

I practiced insincerity
and swift apology,
hoping new linguistics
might arise from generations
of politeness mispronounced.

But the years spilled into
a new millennium and
I learned – however much
you love a language,
it may not love you back.

Invisible non-bodies –
collective elctrodynamics,
fast and furious nano-flares
of hovering incandescence.

They need no permission
to cross borders, leap checkpoints,
falsify fingerprints, scramble eye-scans.

They converse in a code
of wrangling fury, one alias
to another, true identity
unknowable.

These migrants can’t be detained
or deported, They assemble
out of nowhere, instigators
of disruption, provacators
of destruction.

There’s no stopping their attraction
or repulsion. They represent our
deepest fears, for their clandestine
agenda is not at all what it appears.

There’s a ghost tree in the garden,
Spindly spine, non-branches,
Beginning as last year’s memory,
A stillness becoming a trembling
Of light, of movement,
Still frail but rallying
In its swaying aloneness.

The wind, nostalgic, strikes and dies
Upon the scant reflection of body
In the sky. What looks like leaving
Is an ongoingness of song,
A still-flowering of hope,
An unbreakable pattern
Of the art of renewal.

Glittering brilliance, these crystal panels
dressed in their thick, gold frames,
cupping and shaping the light,
pooling images the second they appear,
then, unlike the camera, they let go,
swallowing the world whole,
preparing for the next procession
of time-bond creatures.
They respect transience,
creating their own temporary ripples,
their own instantaneous installations.
They are mime artists of illusion,
disappearing as the earth darkens.
Patiently, for they wait for the return
of light, never doubting it will come.

To observe the sun’s lightening
Sinking into steel night with laughter,
Browned by age, still clinging to
A treasure of ago.
To feel the dart of time and yet
Refuse regret.
To fold into a cotton peace
Whatever is easy to forget
Yet guard what still exists,
What the heart holds too precious
To escape…  A question?
The comfort of reply may come
In sleep, if in darkness we can find
Our way without craving the return
Of day.

Early oracle of harmony
as a swift tide of rays
kisses the world magnolia.
The day is rinsed in purity;
breeze whispers its first song in
the tree’s opalescent sepals
where a colorful blooming
above is glimpsed by the
watchful eye of now.

Here mind is free to invent
its own ballet, a host of
feelings rising like a flock
of birds with each passing
sensation.

Here are depths of time
suspended in the stillness
of palm fronds as moist heat
lays its lazy blanket over
beach and sea.

This season is peopled by
idea ghosts haunting the
corridors of thought left
idle for too long, the ever-
moving tide of change
soon turning.

Oh, to be invisible as wind,
simple as air yet constant
as an orchestra of waves
rising, plunging, withdrawing
and returning again and again.

Come ! Colorful and wild --
like a summer sky, light
stretching shadows long
as possiilities, mixing tints
that fill the day – sunbeams
on the floor, a mirror’s
sudden flash of gold.

Another dawn, another life,
another maybe to be lived,
the means to find the way
through.

Some effervescence caught
in light, the offspring of
a magic formula to see
the star inside the breast,
a small miracle.

Fragments of time come
and go, remembered or
not, and the present,
offered one minute,
taken away the next
when past and future
crowd in like unwanted
guests.

A fountain of wishes,
hopes and regrets,
the unstoppable flow
of feelings, past unchanged,
future unknown, only
the notes of now : bird song,
the splash of waves, the whisper
of the breeze, to comfort with
their gentle symphony the
weary heart.

HOPE AND DESPAIR

Come ! Colorful and wild --
like a summer sky, light
stretching shadows long
as possiilities, mixing tints
that fill the day – sunbeams
on the floor, a mirror’s
sudden flash of gold.

Another dawn, another life,
another maybe to be lived,
the means to find the way
through.

Some effervescence caught
in light, the offspring of
a magic formula to see
the star inside the breast,
a small miracle.

Fragments of time come
and go, remembered or
not, and the present,
offered one minute,
taken away the next
when past and future
crowd in like unwanted
guests.

A fountain of wishes,
hopes and regrets,
the unstoppable flow
of feelings, past unchanged,
future unknown, only
the notes of now : bird song,
the splash of waves, the whisper
of the breeze, to comfort with
their gentle symphony the
weary heart.

Hours have their own being,
creating a natural order of things.
They may flutter like flags in the wind
or spin down through the light.
They draw long shadows on
the evening air, as they begin to
leave off, always followed by another.
They may be warm as a candle flame
or bright and dry as the moon.
At the time of coldest emptiness,
they may extinguish the stars.
Sometimes, the hours come
in a dream like a longed-for
lover, folding their arms
around me, as if each may
be the last.

Sick of too much bright?
Dissolve into the velvet night.
Shake out the dust of stars,
Quench the fire, blow in the wind.
Maintain the subtle balance
That silence will allow.
Reflect attack and reimburse
With kindness.
Don’t fight the fading flesh
Nor quarrel with the unexpected present.
Admire the simple, ignore the shame.
Explore that train of light
And with one single backward glance
Consume all the grief that one life
Can contain.

Against a fire bridge of sunrise,
Blue smoke still under the pines,
A humming bird clings to a sheet of sky,
Light-sensitive paper wings fragile
As spring ice. The eye, messenger
Of flash and shatter, stumbles on
This sudden angle photo.
The inexplicable takes form,
Arranging itself like a watercolour dawn
Opening in slow motion.
The conspirators of dark and cold
Are given short shrift in the moment
The world’s heart stops, touched
By the quick wing beat of April flight.

I AM….

A sudden breath of sensation,
neither happiness nor sadness
yet carried on the winds of truth.

In the absence of tenderness
there is yearning for certainty,
damp with longing.

Within a film of fog
little points of dew
pinprick the mind
with hope, guiding
each tiny step toward
the vast path of sun.

Sunset hovers briefly
allowing the darkling
tones of evening as I
become a vessel of
unhurried thoughts.

I am the echo of a far
off river, a dream of
open sky, a translation
into love’s own language.

And sometimes, in a flash
of half-dream, I understand
the art of letting go.

Surrounded by a company
of stars, I am solitude.

Listen –

to my icy silence
ripening from blue to green

Live –

each careful second
with the seasons of
my transformation

Elate –

in my diversity
bright, awake, transparent

Warm -

my landscape with the gentle glow
of a lover’s touch

Stroke -

my convoluted stems
my thirsty roots
my fragile blooms
my weary soil


Do all this with bliss,
that I shall endure
and be made whole again,

It wasn’t sacrifice, no,
It was meant to be invention.
How many times have I climbed
That crumbling edge of cliff,
Confident, fearless of the wide sky,
I stepped into a place where
There was only air.
A hot rush of melting wings
And I felt what it meant to fall…
A broken doll, all twisted limbs,
Bruised flesh, bashed pride.
I had been warned of the sublime
Beyond a mortal’s reach…
A human body is not meant to fly.
I’ve paid dearly for my careless hope
Yet continue to believe there’s a lucky star
Somewhere in my horoscope.