i am not fluent in the tongue of angels
it does not taste familiar in my mouth
it is not my first language, nor is it my second

i listen to it spoken, and i try to understand
occasionally a word i recognize slips through the wall of sound
and i grasp for more meaning

the native speakers have the patience of saints
they know learning a new language is difficult
they know being in a new place is strange

i stumble over worlds of words
not due to uneven pavement
but unfamiliar streets

two locals appear, one on either side of me
just as i am about to fall

they take my hands and steady me
and i learn another new phrase
i am building new neuropathways
the angels beam with pride

We are not truly the light
if we hold others
in darkness

I tend to dimly shine
………

My writer guide speaks now through me,
to launch my verse, that whispers sweet.
Words dance as they fly toward a page
to anoint future eyes.

I will echo gratitude,
when poem does end and time has flown.
I’ll post it on a site, HP
that calls both night and day.

Perhaps in time some likes shall come
with goal to reach 1000 hearts.
And with a prayer I just may find
it trend to make me smile.

Oh Reader please open your heart
to know in truth you are divine.
Let your sweet love guide as you find,
born is a poem so fine.

Inside curtain of wind,
senses rise and focused mind
begins to hear.
Stream of song reverberates,
as music of breath balances heartbeat.
As vibrant twinkling stars lead thoughts
into pastures of lighted clouds.

Sleep eludes.
while words tumbled off finger tips,
and road to poem starts.
Letters circulate,
as if inside air particles of breath to form
jargon gatherings untouched by human mind.

“Who speaks in yonder hall
of prism faceted mind?”
I ask at 3AM
when it's sleep time for most
but not me.

Is it Shakespeare's shadowed form
as guide perched in realms unseen
who echoes in mind a
“to write or not to write,
that be the question.”

Or could it be Hemingway
who invites self into thoughts
sprinkling seedlings of a vision
once painted on a rainy night.

Perhaps it’s Poe a grand puppeteer of words,
who once lived.
A talented soul in matrex of universe
who offers mind transfusion
to tweak my prose
with a Ravens song.   
 
Maybe its an alien who stops for a while
in a dimension nearby
to reveal a message for those
craving wisdom to fall into eyes like
to move as pioneer
in celebration
of ones sacred self.

Alas time passes
as poem comes to an end
and moon slowly ascends
biding farewell

Undercurrents of sound
shift and writer guides ceases to feed
without leaving his calling card
of a name.

And I bid thee fine reader good day
as my cavorting fingers rest
making way to return to pastures of sleep.

Till we meet again
parting is such sweet sorrow.

1111

333

555

The best insurance in the world
coming to a clock near you.

Inside curtain of wind,
senses rise and focused mind
begins to hear.
Stream of song reverberates,
as music of breath balances heartbeat.
As vibrant twinkling stars lead thoughts
into pastures of lighted clouds.

Sleep eludes.
while words tumbled off finger tips,
and road to poem starts
its pulsating journey.
They circulate,
as if air particles are filled
with jargon untouched by human mind.

“Who speaks in yonder hall
of prism faceted mind?”
I ask at 3AM
when many sleep?

Is it Shakespeare's shadowed form,
as guide perched in realms unseen.
He echoes a “to write or not to write,
that be the question.”
He tickles senses
to awaken breath with,
“he who writes harbors gold.”

Or  could it be Hemingway
who invites self to dance
amid sprinkle seedlings of a vision
to paint on a rainy night.

Perhaps it’s Poe a grand puppeteer of words,
who once lived in human form.
A talented soul in matrex of universe
who wishes to share
with transfusion to tweak my prose
with Ravens song.    

Maybe its an alien who stops a while
in earths space
to reveal message for those
craving wisdom half awake.
A message to move as pioneer
everyday celebration
of ones sacred self.

Inside stage of moment
even the bird sleeps,
and crickets hibernate on winter night.

Inside the solitude of
gentle sparks of creative energies
fingers dance.
They march on
tapping into holding tank
of language
meant to deposit on page.

Alas time moves on,
as daybreak hints to arrive
and moon slowly ascends
biding farewell.

As undercurrents of sound
shift and writer guides ceases to feed
with their divine song.

As I bid thee fine reader good day,
and my cavorting fingers rest
making way for self to return to sleep pastures.

Till we meet again
parting is such sweet sorry.