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the thought is oft on my mind that all the poets here, I hold so dear,
that if we ne’er to meet in flesh & warmth of physical embrace,
that the nuances of our affections should be in someway marked by a lessening, a discoloration, be it be know then that our colors mutuel
will yet be be enhanced by

the colors of divine light,

this real light,
but invisible to the human naked eye’s limited spectrum,
this light fills the “unnamed, unmanned spaces between us;”

although we may not knowingly vision each other,  
we may envision-know the
sensate glow from the warmth of each other’s blood coursing
blue in vein and artery,  
with the aid of divine light,
trace each others faces with colorizing,
memorizing fingertips,
creating a seared retained memory;

the hues of theses impossible colored, rays that cannot be
optically ascertained, yet, we can understand them, in the same manner we mortals understand the divine presence,
invisible but ever present
in ways more real than, well, as real as any other mundane way

Remains of the summer
sunlight drip out,
entomb'd in raindrops
from the prevailing
gray beclouded skies
Memories of joy
bathed in sunlight
unravel like a wind
frayed kite dancing
above a day at the beach

Soaring seagulls ponder
all thousand feet of kite string
tied to a hidden bliss below —
hurtling through
the shapeless heavens
tethered to refreshed
dreams still lingering
within an untamed
child of the wind

Morning falls
from  the  trees
in whispers
of golden sorrow
The damp chilled air
smells fresh as the traces
of heaven's cleansing rain —
befallen drop  by  drop,
each plash counted
from an angel weeping,
splattering the broken silence
all  through the night.

An inflamed montage
of leaves surrender
all this unholdable lifeline
we  ever  know;
blanketing the fields
of  autumn's tawny  grass —
Sowing a mosaic colored
reclamation  reposed
atop a nascent green,
soon enrobed by impending
winter’s pallid slumbering hues

The darkening hush
imbues a shadowing
fugitive peacefulness
bathed in wind river eddies
of autumn’s blessing rains

harlon rivers

.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a crack under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.



© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)

left my phone unlocked
on the taxi’s back seat,
won't be the last time

called it a few times
finally, the driver picked up

he had a fare immediately after mine,
and was now headed way downtown,
and would call later
when fate returned him nearer my office

and so it came to pass,
very shortly thereafter,

we met on the street,
he rolled down  the window
and with the greatest smile of pleasure,
as if he had won the lottery
beaming,
handed me my phone

I had two $20's to cover any expense he might have incurred,
neatly folded in my hand  
and offered it right up, right away;
but the driver repeatedly pushed my hand away
as I insisted,
saying:

"No sir, no no, not necessary!

Allah sent me a fare
that took me soon back close to you, so,
  no loss of time did I suffer,
so your offer is kindly unnecessary!"

to which I replied,

"exactly!
Allah sent you to me
so I could reward you!"

and with an equally, beaming smile I continued,

"our ride and meeting today,
together was pre-ordained it was

Inshallah!" ^

something he could not dispute...
or my knowledge thereof and it’s
proper pronouncement,
nor
his amazement,
to disguise!

  we parted ways
   each believing,
   each receiving,
a heavenly check plus,
each, credited with a mitzvah^^
on our
respective trip logs,
our humanly divine balance sheets,
kept by the
single
supreme taxi dispatcher

dedicated to E.B.
a man of faith
~

the-third-of-three-of-thee queries,
ask this poet anything variety pack,
3 permission-granted non-deniable answers,
though somewhat unsurprisingly,
the demands are the common deeper commonality,
yet finds the poet
flat footed, tongue raveled, searching
repeatedly for le mot juste, answers he doesn’t prefer to task,
by asking himself ever
directly

fingers and tips knotted,
their cooperative sensation severed,
unprepared to answer
deferring, with a weakish,
“it’s buried in plain sight in the
thousand + poem answers resting here
for a someday funeral oratory anticipatory”

all the tired, tried and refried and endless recycled responsa tossed into a barrel of formaldehyde;

in dissolution, perhaps the solution?

numerous are my recorded “dialogues,”
verbal battles with spirit authorities,
plenty of cursing and finger pointing
and not of the Sistine Chapel variety;
mutual forgiveness for human and supreme  errors,
not always, hardly ever,
on the tabula rasa menu

but you think
a principle, responsum est constituta
(from the principal, the answer can be derived)
therefore, yes, he must be...

but
the poet replies faith in what,
meaning he has the surety of none

then!
the phone rings and the poem begins:
in a voice of heretofore unknown register,

<•>


“I am the highest authority
none greater

I am but and only the first creator;
my touch operates at the spiderweb level,
the muse of muses,
present in the first grazing garden of lips,
the cacophony clarity of the avians swapping stories
in the early morn,
my worldwide alarm clock,
the wafted word,
breeze born when any poet stumbles on what comes next,
I am scented cherry blossoms, the breath in the iris newly come, and quickly gone,
the spiders web
where there yesterday there was none,
I am the first poem,
and will be the last

the new skin neath the scab,
the cooing of a grandchild that
sun melts hardy men grizzled who think
there is nothing new under the sun

the counter movement of every wave that shushes,
requesting global silence,
even when no human present to applaud

I am the smile upon the surgeon exiting
the operating room,
his right hand of confidence,
the arm draped upon a strangers shoulder
who weeps unabashedly for
undisclosed reasons that do not matter

you ask the poet
is he a man of faith
a bewildering query that obtains
diffident daily responsa, for the very question
is an ever changing variable

easy come and easy go
for what is faith but a traveling circus,
a summer day, forgot as it melds with next,
faith in?
me? hardly...

who could sustain a belief in the invisible hand that is the breeze between blades of grasses where the snowflakes will later accumulate as if nesting

even faith in himself
is a passing cloud,
a short term rental

but in that instance
he is faithful personified
for he “discovered”
the next word to close and complete,
the poem that did not exist prior

thus faith stored and restored
he believes once more if but for
a seconds-long knowing a defining of
faith

  thus he is neither solved or dissolved;
yet, is resolved to keep getting
closer to that completion
that affords him, or any poet,
to own the faith that affords belief