You're sitting in the room alone, comfortable in yourself.
That's when someone else walks in,
and now you're someone else.

Ancient temple bathed in morning sun


lotus blooms quietly in front of the hall


here i am an uninvited visitor


lost in the golden Sanskrit sounds


bells of the temple echo deep in the mountains


looking at the solemn face of Buddha


unspeakable thoughts flow slow


thousands of books i've read


just to find an answer


thousands of miles traveled


just to find a place where the soul can dwell.

Existing unrest exacerbated or
change in climate lowering the cloud cover
surrounding the mountain peaks For once
visible the centuries of suffering
now leading us into violence The
tables upturned by an invention spreading
like wildfire across dry meadows
or storm rivers under the seas
Bewildering Frankenstein monster
a stage for
the flowers of the brains to radiate
in strands of light above the lands
Connecting
discoveries and creations
Shared
passion and truth and
kindness valued in
a world in transit An echo
of upheavals from ninety five theses
when the rolling waves of knowledge open
for children to follow their drive
where it takes them
A transfer to learn
without belonging pains while
we downsize our upkeep
and upsize our bonds
our unfettered feet buried in the sand and our
heads held where the wind blows and the
sun shines We dance
We sing to a tune freed
on our way to be and to become
and together
in time
maybe
save what can be
                                     or end with beauty

My writing desk
My chair
A slap to the face
Fingers running through my hair
I will words
Which refuse to appear
I will
That which I will always fear
That only the quill knows how to be sincere
Unbuttoned shirt
A battered sternum
Under the hurt
The heart
Blooms the poisonous laburnum
Beating like a drum
I insert the quill
Holding in
Until it's had its fill of yellow ink
I do not think but write
Numbed but the words appear alright
I repeat until the flowers pass their bloom
And blackened fill the room
My throat is dry
My writing desk is wet
By my laburnum blood and sweat
Time to rest
To sew up my open chest
To sleep and in the morning feel again
Anatomical garden
Quill pen

The best
poetry
floods through
the writer’s pen,

A wildfire of shooting stars
across papery rows
of crisp oat fields

The most delicious
imbue the reader
down crowny heads
out waltzing feet,

A lyrical nectar
ejecting the soul
into the stratosphere

You can see it in a drowned man’s eyes
In the pawn shop window I just passed
Frosty truths that come to the table uninvited

The poet and the truth
Face to face, one whistles, one listens
The napkins fill with cognitive snapshots

The poet drowns in words
Just wanting to say something
Or hear it said at all

The dying words from a poet’s mouth
Blow about in autumn color
Drifts and piles that shape the years of practice

What's worth saying has to be said by someone
So a poet goes looking and would suppose
That words rubbed together right would produce

Word museum sentences ripe with meaning
Phantasms haunting great books and minds
Torches lighting the way for all

The poet takes aim and fires
At the fog of meaning
He tugs at God’s coat tail

The creative mind
never truly sleeps;
it naps 45 minutes
at a time.
Even, that which
appears to be
sleep, is a fitful
state of poetic creativity.
The brain is like
a patchwork quilt
that uses the scraps of
the day's events,
trying to fit symbols
together, like a
jigsaw puzzle.
Here's another one
from the vast
analog of the brain.

It'll flow when it flows,
Like a babbling brook,
Giggling through meadows,
Of creativity,
And mental banks,
Full of books,

Stimulation,
Free from frustration,
Exaltation,
Intoxication,

Full of life,
Full of love,

To nurture your being,
Cuddle your feelings,
Revive,
Your sense of meaning.