When still,
the world turns around the axis of my heart.
From the dark within,
lemniscates of lantern light
tie ribbons in my eyes;
will you know me then?

And when I die, a steady wind
of myrrh and frankincense
will polish my bones,
so that when you see me again,
I’ll glow anew
through a translucent veil
of scented skin.

Everything we see is
it’s pristine essence
casting the same light
from the womb of darkness.

Gripped by the dolor of a glaucous sky,
love's longing reminds us
that nothing is ever truly lost
to anything less
than the visual acuity of a heart.

Unseen signs never give up
their quest for being seen.
With a slight tilt of the head,
the light of the heart changes...
and so does everything,
everything.

Absorbed with his iPAD, I’m fixated on his movements; scratching his nose, the glide of his finger over the touch screen.  My son’s blue shirt is exactly the same color and intensity of the indigo fish that are twitching in the micro-currents of a large coffin sized fish tank.  

From somewhere in the waiting room, a wind tunnel of white noise encases me in sterile solitude.   It’s our third visit with Dr. Robbins who is leading the conspiracy to rewire his brain.  I say “our visit” as if someone else shares the brunt of responsibility, the guilt and condolences.  But it’s just me; his mother died a year ago this past January, leaving me to raise him and his sister.  

We are sitting in the corner of the room with our computers; I am typing how a mother would be gently soothing him with long gentle strokes to fine textured hair.  He’s playing Mindcraft.  Our hands are busy computing with abandon… waiting for our brains to be rewired; his, by the smiling Dr. Robbins - mine, by the frowning of time.

My death is a lengthening
eastern shadow creeping
As the sun sets on a westerly life
fountain coins, falling, deepening.

Throw away nothing
of a poets reaping recollection
Glowing golden within the chaff,
darkened wheat in separation.

He plays to a spotlight,
an audience foreshortened
in the darkness beyond true sound
of a winter whitened curtain.

The azimuth of the eyes
reveals the sweetness
on his lips,
their twisting of the rind
twirls a scent within the mist.

All is a poem in search of a song
and a song in search of a voice
A fair curve in a slow current
Is but to choose without a choice.

Nourished by love
for the unseen within,
when seen with a heart,
Shimmers, sans end.

Swells the bud
a flame before bloom,
sans thorn, sans pain
sans sojourner's wound.

The wilting, the dying,
the falling to earth,
the paradox wrapped
in a gift of re-birth.

In death so many
nod in decay
who’s hues loved light
until light loved gray.

Deep hearted thinker
Let loose the reigns
To careen through
redolent gardens again.

Moments pause
on a fragranced path
you’ll hear a subtle
message plash…

twas a tear
of Mercury’s reflection,
spake, “whence you came,
is where you go,
take heed; all roads,
but One direction.”

Hearts imbued with redolence
fill the garden with others sent…

…to pour their wine in waiting chalice
of servants drunk in sultans palace.

Fragrance comes before the rose,
then long after the petals close.

Following the scent of flower white
a nightingale came to rest one night.

Amongst the thorns she made her bed
there from her chest, the colors bled.

So the rose received its hue,
from the winged messenger of Allahu.

"It was not my home they bombed,"
The little girl said,
But a thin shell
which failed instead.

My home?
It is within a billion hearts
And beyond that,
part of every star.

My name?
It’s spoken in every tongue,
But a different language
For everyone.

And what ever becomes,
was willed to be
Before the dawn
of eternity.

No, it’s not my home,
This restless place,
But for the reflection of love
When you remember my face.