Someone told me
My poems sound like they're
Written
Two hundred years ago
By an incomprehensible lunatic
To which I can only reply
"Whitman or Emerson?"

In dire straights
the human being's
collective
  conscience
   coalesces
    compassion.
Always to create
in those moments
nothing short of miracles.

Some go ahead, to trip or prize
To allow common day
Some go on further, to their end
Relief and win at lay
Some go past, eyes-filled guilt or pride
To that which won't return
Some go further, to never was
Utopian bliss-filled yearn
Few stay here, hearing today's bird
Perceiving now's great space
Magic greater than fore or aft
Mind and body in place

In a dark Inn of sour brew
I speak it plain and slant
I clothe my wolf in sheep and cape
Exerting can from can't

Pounding ******* the minor chords
I summon all my strength
Stopping for neither rest nor test
But pushing on at length

I will find courage when its lost
With fuel of good or ill
With fire of heart, and lungs that draw
I give up all but will

9

Through lane it lay—through bramble—
Through clearing and through wood—
Banditti often passed us
Upon the lonely road.

The wolf came peering curious—
The owl looked puzzled down—
The serpent’s satin figure
Glid stealthily along—

The tempests touched our garments—
The lightning’s poinards gleamed—
Fierce from the Crag above us
The hungry Vulture screamed—

The satyr’s fingers beckoned—
The valley murmured “Come”—
These were the mates—
This was the road
Those children fluttered home.