Out of the debris of dead stars
That rain its benevolent particles
Onto living waters into miracles,
The sea of atomic births
Collide like comets of their elders
Into evolving molecular mountains;

The sun that couldnt stay
Has birthed an apparition
Of its former self in a glorious
Cycle of substance called life,

In the constellation being named
With more dust on the way
As we look around the planet
Of evolved carnivore,

From star to water to land
To tree to the dirt again,
The silent waste of star-
This body, this mass humanity,
Us people, never and always,
Birthing constellations.

he wanted to be the
redwood tree among the giants
but she refused to be
his sun

he wanted to be the lion
hunting in the wild
but she refused to be
his jungle

he turned every direction
and became dizzy
and looking for his balance
he turned to her
but she refused to be level

he tried to become a romance
but she was too hurt
he turned himself into light
but she always carried
a blanket of dark

he decided to become
a man
and though she refused to still be
a woman
he decided to love her
anyway

There are thousands of us here
In this small part of the internet.
We are thousands,
Voices of all natures.
I wonder how many in all
The corners of the world?
Here alone are thousands
Which plant seeds of philisophical change
And the evolution of our society.

How many words will it take
To declare the state of humanity
As the world goes deaf and blind?

Every once in a while I see a poem
With a national headline,
Some black kid shot by a white cop.
Then the poem disappears,
The poet and his or her fellow
Writers retreat inward
Jumping into nothingness
Of feelings and self loathe.
We carry a banner with a million
Words and nothing to say in unision.
Oh God, is this the path of the poets?

But suddenly I realise
And I see I am just as shallow
As the next,
The pulse of the world will not
Beat with poets,
Though poets can be the racing pulse
Of change.

Let the poets unite on common ground!
Cry out against something in unision.
We are thousands of voices
That cannot yell.
How many of us here on the internet?

How hard is it to rise against
The machine and bring
About change truly to the soul,
To see ourselves rise up
With our words?
What we speak we will write,
What change we write
Will give birth to humanity.

I walk the city, the city clean
Where the sun is brighter on this side,
I keep my head straight no to be seen,
Though all my guilt can I cannot hide.

When the dove sings below me I can hear,
When the child suffers I do understand,
Where my conscience bundles up its fear
Before the child does raise her hand.

I carry no hope or miracle for the child
But I probably should spare the change,
To leave her in this city wild,
Would a dollar or pennies ease her pain?

With head straight forward I continue a march,
Pockets jingle past the innocent poor,
Walking past my burning heart,
I wonder if Heaven for her will open a door.

And when I spoke her freely
My words,
The cage became a bird.
And my heart a frenzy because
It longed for death and
Now howls at her life.
      She smiles at the reflection
Of my words,
What shall I speak to her now?
And the light dances in her smile,
Her seasons burn lilies into
My ideas,
******* my hands
That were gone without hope,
She brings a poet from death.

She punishes the darkness
And all the monsters that ****
Away the blood of life.

In the hour of her fullness
Condensing on my lower lip,
I breathe life into words,
Though it was her name that
Condemned my sorrows to the gallows.

And I am young again,
My eyes speak,
My mouth listens,
And all my life has come to now.
The end is a rebirth
And I fled the dark side of night,
The worn out lonely poet
Has come one more into the light
And for her,
Because it was inevitably her,
It is not too late.

I remember my sorrows
When I destroyed flowers,
The flowers withered in my hand
Because the joy still lingered
In them.

But she has devoured my chaos,
Caged my fears
And loosened the words.

And though I was lost in the abyss,
Surrounded by a prison of regret,
She loosed me from that place,
And the cage became a bird.

Where I belong, or destined to be
Is not exactly clear like
Crystalline doubt with fear in tow.
No,
Not on the ridge where I stand partly
In sky atop a roof not there
In its geometrical theory.
With the straight line
Like hammer to wood
Curved yet target laid,
Walking sticks on top of sticks
I nail my presence to homes
Yet homely to be made.
Not on the porch where lemonaid
Will be poured and yet to be's
Will extend on in time as an
Echo lingers of what no one sees.

I build a home
And leave a peice of me unknown.

He died on a Tuesday.
And I know he must descend
Like vertigo on on a sunshine day.
And must ascend to a new place
Where the infinite beyond he visits
In waves of willow trees
On rolling hills past ancient
Words spoken only in holy places.

And the soul is on a journey
To no particular flesh, laying
Waste to karma and decidedly
Has become new dust to swirl
As old as the soul, so very young
To God infinite.

Outside of time,
A place between spaces
Through cracks like windowpanes
He celebrates his life.
Along the way he will pass
Those who have passed before him,
Whose words have become like
Eternal moments,
Whose lives have known the temporary
And the beauty of unknowing.

Perhaps - maybe...
His soul journeys on into forever
And back again,
Open door of wombs to what
New dreams may come.

He died on a Tuesday
And returned to forever.

In my youth I remember my face.
               Today
As I have lived and breathed
        And died inside many times
And live again in this lifetime;
     I see faces in a mist,
The man in the mirror
          Has no face.

The words so deep
They reach about like a lightning storm
That reveals the nature
Of our joyous sorrows.

This is the poet that escapes
From dull crevices and fixed niches
Into a sky adorned with metaphor
And fantastical illusions.
It's a gathering of Weeping Willows
And under are flowers of death
And dark romancing light.

It is like the march of an invisible
Parade bustling down the day,
Each one thoroughly entertaining
With the prestige of words written
On their invisible skulls.
      The hunger that ends but is
Never satisfied,
A miracle backwards,
A solitary confinement with the universe.

And in the middle of sorrow and joy
Is love
Between two bodies,
The romance,
The fall,
Something that brings about melancholic grace
To a fallen angel
At the cusp of mercy of mortality.
The pen and the poet
Bid farewell daily to this world
And everyday reinvent it
With audascious hope....

Poetic reality, oh miserable happiness:
The sea of stars in the eyes of a poet.

Do you know what awaits beyond
Your dreams and hopes?
Do you suddenly in the later years
start to think about regrets?
     Before losing oneself in the tide
Of timeless past amidst a dense thought
Of who we ought to be,
     There in the afterthoughts stirring
In the depths of your gut,
A great extension of yourself comes about,
That which blindly guides us through
The dust of days.
    And the rust of yesterday's patterns glues
Itself to your brain which racks itself
And inhabits  the heart which weighs
Itself heavy.
    
    Do you remember when she first kissed
You suddenly and intently?
    Do you remember when she walked away
In tears and you furiously said nothing?
    And she became a regret
Waiting in ambush,
And the thought of her becomes like
A deep well in a vast desert,
The water inside holds a bittersweet charm,
She still awes you,
Against all the time,
Afainst the whole of the Earth,
And still a hope erupts from somewhere
Deeper like the rope that pulls you
Out of yourself.
     Such a familiar sadness.
Who are you compared to then?
And the hope wells against the tide,
Another part of you is born,
This one can see a distant light
From a certain view.
      And the rage is a hope,
      The regret a sad song,
      we remain more
      When time is least,
      And the least becomes
      A joyous misery.