Before breath was drawn,
before hearts could beat,
before oceans dared to kiss the shore,
He was.
Not a thought,
not a sound,
only the Eternal Flame
burning without smoke or ash,
unseen, yet everywhere.
He spoke
and silence shattered like glass.
Worlds spilled from His tongue,
stars poured from His gaze.
Galaxies spun like dancers,
moving to the rhythm of His heartbeat.
When He moves,
mountains bow like fragile reeds.
When He rests,
time itself grows still.
Even the storm waits,
holding its breath,
for His signal to rage.
Kings wear crowns of dust.
Nations rise and fall like waves.
But His throne never tilts,
His kingdom never fades.
No shadow rivals His light.
No force dares stand against Him.
He is the Alpha before the first letter,
the Omega beyond the last breath.
And when the final star collapses,
when every song is silenced,
when every voice is stripped bare
all will fall to their knees and whisper,
through trembling lips and tear-stained faces:
He is God.
There was never another.

Sep 15
2 0 15

your poem read,
awoken by lightening flashes of
morning notifications arriving,
postmarked from
"I liked it"

but it does not
end there,
continues,
to a new ending

who and why,
who and why,
did this one find
their own
worthy in it
that was writ unknowingly
just for them

and
you look them up,
guessing
who and why,
rereading your hand's work,
which verse was it,
was it for a blessing or a
curse,
that touched them,
that made them
touch
you

each "like,"
a work in itself

re examined,
re searched,
re imagined
in the
light of
who they are
and
why they are
liking words I wrote

a single poem
bring hours of imagination,
each "like"
individually gift wrapped,
each human liking rapt,
each imagine a rapture,

each "like"
a new poem
about the who and why
each name a disguise to unravel,
each name a title
of a new different,
imagined poem,
who and why,
we
like
each other

~~~
6:53am

"Ideally, I’m at a nice desk in my home office or a library or a cafe somewhere, but I really try to train myself to write anywhere and at any time."
Author Rebecca Kuang (1)

<nml>
bus stops, airplanes,
soaking bathtubs, any couch in every room.
driving, jitney riding, back of taxis,
bed, beds, anywhere I rest my head,
airport lounges, (hotel bars, very har-d)
in backyards by the water,
where serenity and serendipity,
order me motionless, stilled, and yet,
doggedly pursued by the
emissions of the observable,
anytime anyplace,
while making love,
while taking love
giving love,
in motion, at rest,
reading yours, stumbling over fab quotes,
in restaraunts,
or sidewalk concrete streamings,
on either
paper or cloth
napkins,
(but not tablecloths)
soft places, watery places,
(but not pewed hard benches,
unless the sermons are just god~awful)
tears on face
privately and publicly,
Yankee Stadium,
did I mention the subway?
long drives on horrible highways,
upon seeing beautiful people,
little children, streets full of couples
holding hands, arms around shoulders
d r a p i n g
and babies...

theater, where the spoken lines enunciate/incite me,
walking on the street and music earbuds
issue me ten commandments,
lyrics to analyze,
words to satisfy,
provocations that fallow were,
now demanding a dueling satisfaction


'round children, anytime or anyplace,
in fact, in deed,
the most difficult place
is at my desk,
where the pressures of composition,
brings an ill disposition,

watching ballet dancers twist my soul,
by watching the human body unfold,
did I mention the Metropolitan
Museum.
Opera
Transit Authority,
yeah yeah
pretty much anywhere inspirations lay
littered on sidewalks, in the air,
***** underground stations,
in motion, or in emotion,
places and moments of devotion
wherever they are detectable,
in streams of conscious unconsciousness,
walking by river esplanades,
central parks,
overhearing drama spoken on city streets,
where things said, cannot be unheard,
and never forgotten...

that pretty much covers all the places,
most of all the fresh faces,
and the tired old shuffling bodies inclusive

did I mention doctor's waiting rooms?
especially in silent elevator trips of long duration,
trapped within by **** looking human beings,
and you compose witty ditty
opening lines
that die on vines unspoken

or kids with outrageous, flashing lights on sneakers,
inside department stores
not much,
but those Fifth Ave. windows at holiday seasons,
plenty writing inspiration,
bunch of bunches

where the Towers fell,
where blood innocent was felled,
in snow, rain and slush,
over good bad desserts,
near Good Humor and Mr. Softee trucks,
upon openings  of refrigerators
with nothing but moldy cheese,
or freezers overstocked with no room to breathe,
in the dark to a symphony of tiny multi colored electronic dots,
in rooms with tinny roofed ceilings during Florida hurricanes,
walking down unending hallways with no exits signs
for miles and miles

well that about covers it,
if you had a few spare weeks, you would find a poem from
each and every one of these situational places,

so the point well made,
you write in you head,
which you take pretty much
everywhere

>nml<

on the couch,
where else?
6:12am