Chain the secret gate
Greenest passage to the flowering kiss
Fielding blue dew drops upon bade wood

Be mine where eyes don't lie
Till one is ever and all
The bright dare of a song

Pearl hidden where death won't gaze
By such verse lost and collected anew
Sun singing it's summer love song forever

The indifference of paper kaleidoscopes
touches the afternoon's stained glass.

Scattered bubbles of blood
repeat the vaporous names of rocks.

The world itself wavers between
straying syllables of books.

A blank moment arrives
staring at secrets made visible.

All day is the stillness of
unchanging light around the temple.

Between 'come' and 'go'
the same motionless theater of rest.

Time gobbles up
the elusively throbbing reflections.

Myself the ghostly transparency
made of circular-turning glass.

Sad, beautiful days
Embrace me, from some stranger land
Than told to truth, beneath a ******'s moon.

I must go there to unfold the dawn-
Quickly; before the moon's shadows can find
The red radar beam, that's behind our eyes.

Now longing owns the temporal shell;
There's one name, one lone figure
As distant as the blinking stars.

A gesture may have to speak our words for us;
Or sometimes, only an expression;
Or just the direction we happen to be facing.

In a wider arc, I sense your being
Big as the ocean, deeper than sky;
Your tears the diamonds, questioning why?

Give to me your softer hands,
That sorrow's flames could never bear;
Somewhere above the spreading sun

In waves of peace, I'll find you there.

A severe civility rests within
the soul,
of the broken hearted man.

That burn which test, his fabric's core
has torn
the once strong warp; no more.

His eyes are filled, of far off light;
enough
for only, each sole night.

His words may break in lines, between
the bones,
of the sentence, of his meaning.

Not the whole man, he used to be
for reasons
less obvious, to you and me.

He keeps his grief apart, so he
can bury it
some place, secretly.

And though he never go there again:
his eyes
his loved one's shroud, still rend.

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King Tut's necklace missing;
They're hunting high and low,
And Obama's nose is growing
Just like Pinocchio's.

And the Ben Bernanke is sensitive,
For he feels misunderstood,
Cause all the paper he's printing
Is really just a bunch of wood.

And there's lots that's going on
But I find it hard to care;
King Tut he died eons ago,
And there's something in the air:

For the birds keep falling dead,
And Yellowstone's waking up,
The sun has no more sunspots,
And the North Pole’s moving up.

The Gulf current dead or dying,
The Middle East flying apart;
I wish I had a magic carpet
To escape from all this dark.

The fish dying in their schools,
The gas is scarce or gone;
The power plants are idling
Just when the chill is on.

Is there something I've forgotten,
On my list of things to dread-
Oh yes, I've ordered poison
Cause I'm better off just dead.

Aunt Louise was a rodent
Who preferred to call herself, mouse
And out in the gamboling country
Had a sleek modern hideaway house

The door was disguised by a boot
Whose toe was quite deftly chewed out
And a quaint little stair descended
To show a most well concealed route

The soil was a clay most compacted
Excavated most patiently slow
And no water nor creatures could crack it
Neither hail, nor sleet, nor snow

The neighborhood creatures would marvel
What a crafty genius, Louise
She'd say come down for a spot of tea, now
And close the door behind, please

The door was most clever of all
For it looked like a fragment of sock
Left behind by the boot's missing owner
But concealed there, a small sandstone rock

When the painted side of the rock
Was in sight at the top of the house
It meant that Louise was at home
Like the most respectable mouse

When the raw side of the rock was showing
It meant, don't bother to come down
For Louise was bound to be shopping
Over in the nearby Mousetown.

The rock was bright red at Christmas
On St. Paddy's, was bound to be green;
But her most favorite day was Valentine's,
When a gorgeous pink was there seen.

But one day a terrible accident
Befell poor Mrs. Mouse's door
It was a hulking monster of metal
With a disconsonate roar

A lawn mower chewed up the boot
And it spit out the piece of sock
And it crumbled the hapless sandstone
Till it no longer looked like a rock

So Aunt Louise had to move then
To another den down the way
Where she never again would mention
The quaint little house of old days.