All of my troubled lives have I taken leave
Of all that I ever thought you could be?
Without seeing you or knowing you
And often at the very idea of you,
I suffered a bidding of something I could never know.
As if I had long ago bid you adieu.

That time, time was my heart suffering
At some strange and dismal crisis.
My mind, body and soul were to be as separate beings
Which somehow seemed to be less than nothing
Until I passed that tremendous moment.
My love - your love - they were both in different worlds,
One where I would give anything to go after them or
Even hear of an account of them.

Time was what life could never be.

The reality of those words working softly over me
Like one day does blend into the next until
Returning blurred through some imagined memory.
All of my lives, have I really taken my leave of thee?
I always knew everything that I thought you would be.
But I see you and now I have
More than just the mere idea of you.

Oh but at least I no longer suffer at something I never knew.
So now I pray Lord, with the windows open tonight,

I beg of you

Paint me on the outgoing gentle breeze.
Let me know this love I need.
Let me be the warmness in the air that you breathe.
Let me drift through your open window
Softly blowing the sheer curtains over you.

Oh to be that sweet caress,
Sensual and soft upon your skin.
Your bed becoming a cloud
Cradling you in the misty waters of warmth.
Let it graze lightly upon your body
Like the tip of a painter's brush.

Let yourself feel my love with every movement,
Designed for your pleasure.
Let me hear you beg to be fully painted.
Let all of our art take its intended form.
Dipping again into the warm paint
Withdrawing slowly, ever so slowly
To feel the paint take hold.
Admiring our beautiful work,

Whatever it is that we create.

Within our artistic release
The hottest colors of passion
Pouring from within us
With each brush stroke erupting
So smoothly until
Even the brush shudders.
The immense sensations born on the wind.
Listen now, can you hear me?
Can you feel me?
I’m right here.
Painted on the breeze.

The man .. or woman .. who either disdains or fears to walk up
The darkest of entries may be an excellent being –
Fit for a thousand good things – but he or she may not
Make a good person to sit with their own spirit.
I count so little of the things that I see pass
By me at broad noon in the open street.
My nature is shy and I hate spectators yet in
Such unobserved corners I sometimes see the
Fault in my nature –
But is not nature simply nature after all?

Through a long lit wide passage the air opens
Into the narrowest of streets trodden upon by
The many who humbly await their turn to speak.
They get oft in my head until they at last
Are given their silent turn to audition for my inner word play -
The one that I know I will reproduce later –
Oh they all read their own lines one after
The other as I secretly score their performance.
I can tell always when they have struck a chord in me
Because their score is measured within my laughter - or my tears.

I pretend to call out next - and the next one begins their reading ...
And thus here it goes….

Two ladies were standing arm in arm 5 paces from me
With their backs against the wall – I edged up
Within a yard or so of them and quietly took my stand.
I was all dressed in black and scarcely seen – as were they –
The lady to my left was a tall lean figure of a woman
Of about forty: the other woman the same size and make
At about age forty six.
There was no look of wife or widow in either of them –
They seemed to be two upright vestal sisters –
Unblemished by caresses – unbroken by tender salutations.

I wished to my soul that I could somehow make them happy
But I knew that this night their happiness was to come from
Some other quarter, a place not far away from my heart.
Behind me I heard voice, a shrill voice which had within
It the sweetest of cadence about it, it was asking for two and twenty dollars.
Having had my thoughts so impetuously shattered I turned to
See the owner of the voice - thinking “For the love of Heaven,
Has begging gotten onto to such a science that now the beggar is allowed
To ask for the exact amount of charity that his need requires? ”

As for the two women,
They seemed as astonished by the request as I for
The request was about an outlandish thing – near
Twenty two times more than what one would normally
Give in the daytime – let alone in the dark.
“Twenty two dollars!” one of the ladies exclaimed
Laughing while the other lady shook her head in disbelief.
The poor man then said, “I know not how to ask for less
Of ladies of your rank and beauty,” and then he took off
His tumbleweed hat and bowed down his head
As if he were in the presence of royalty.

The beggar remained silent in his bow and after a
Minute or two he renewed his supplication with,
“Do not my fair ladies, please do not stop your one good ear
Against me – for I have a need of the amount and I’m
Not used to begging so forgive me if my asking is out of rule.”
The older of the two replied, “My good man, between the two
Of us we do not have the money that you require for we carry
No cash.”
“Then God bless you”, the man cried “And may God multiply
Your joys by which you so graciously give to others while without any cash.”

I then observed the younger woman reaching into her purse.
“I have a twenty she said,” as she pulled the bill free of her clutch
Handing it straightaway to the man but he shook his head no.
“I must have twenty two”, he replied, “Surely you must have two more,
Has not nature been good to you?” he asked “I see she has been
Bountiful to you – please be bountiful to a poor man in need.”
Still holding out the twenty she answered, “If I had it I would.”
He turned back to the older one and said, “My fair charitable woman,
What is it but your goodness and humanity which makes your eyes
So sweet – they outshine the morning even in this dark passage.
I only just heard the lawyer and the doctor over there talking
About how beautiful the two of you are as I passed by them.”

I watched as the two ladies seemed to be much affected and to my
Amazement the older one of them reached into her purse and pulled
Out another twenty and both of them handed them to the man.
The context between them and the beggar was no more but it continued
On between the two of them even after the man had walked away.
I stepped on hastily after him touching him on the shoulder
To get his attention and as he turned he shoved the forty dollars in his pocket,
“I could have you arrested for panhandling,” I said as he turned around.
“Panhandling?” he asked, “I was not panhandling,” he responded.

“When was the last time that you heard of a panhandler getting an eighteen dollar tip?”

Sitting, she opened the lapel of my jacket and from
My shirt pocket – she took my pen.
Then from her purse she pulled out a small diary
And carefully unwound the ribbon from its leather binding
Until it opened her into the next available page.

“Shall I write” she asked, “Or is it – I shall write?”
Questioning her flippant words I reply,
“But is there a difference?”
“Oh yes”, she said, “There is the greatest of differences –
For in the one there is a question while in the other there is a statement.”

“Hum,” said I – thinking ore her commentary – “Yes I suppose
In one sense with one remark you are the slave while
In the other remark you are the master.”
I watched as she wrote into her diary today’s date and then
She wrote, “His mind works in a perfect circle.”

“Why did you write that?” I questioned.
“Because I must be a slave to what I write,” she responded.
“I beg to differ madam”, said I, “That was clearly a
Statement – a statement about me – that makes you the master.”
“No”, she said, “I am merely serving YOUR pen.''

I am apt to be taken with all kinds of people at first sight:
But never more so than when a poor devil comes to offer
Her opinions to an even poorer devil as I.
Oh I know my own weaknesses as I always suffer them in every thought,
Drawing concentric rings about them according to the mood that I am in.

“Is it because I’m a woman?” she asked, “Does my gender preclude
My ability to be a slave to words or do you believe all women are the master?”
I thought on her questions for a minute seeing full well the trap that she
Was so eloquently leading me into – for on the one hand I am to lead -
While on the other – and this one must be the real truth – I am to be led.

“When you first walked into the lobby”, I said, “I found myself
After every excuse that I could make to my soul to meet you.
Your genuine look and the very air around you at once
Determined that any matter between us was in your favor.
So I came over to you to see what it was that you wanted me to do.”

She put the pen to the paper once more and wrote, “Well almost
A perfect circle but somewhere the circle seems to be broken.”
“Now hold on a minute,” I said wrapping my arms on my chest, “You want
To write in your diary that MY CIRCLE is broken when you’ve not
Had the benefit of my accompaniment for more than a mere 5 minutes?”

She looked into my face, “OH - I - SEE, you take an offense that I sum up
Your worth based upon less than 5 minutes with you when you yourself
Just said that you came over to me – without knowing me mind you – to see
What it was that “I” wanted YOU to do – excuse me but if anyone here is
Being presumptuous - then “I” think that it must surely be you.”

I walked around her chair to the left in a broad
Circle until I came directly up to her on the one side of the seat.
“You know”, I remarked, “You may be right my circle may be broken
For it seems like there is SOMETHING IN MY WAY.”
She put my pen to her paper again and wrote “He’s a little slow but -

Thank God I think there’s some hope for him still. We SHALL see –
Or is it – SHALL we see?”
She handed me my pen, closed her diary and re-wrapped the ribbon about
It being sure to bookmark her place – her place? My Place?
She held out her hand and I took it in mine helping her to her feet.

“Yes, I suppose WE shall see”: I said as I kissed the back of her hand and
Then we turned to walk side by side toward the elevator corridor.
We reached the elevators and one door was open so we stepped aboard.
The door closed - “No one is a slave nor are they the master -
There can be no perfect circle until that truth is realized,” she whispered.

She turned to me as the elevator rose,
“We have to stop meeting like this”, I said.
“Oh but I know how you like roll playing”, she answered.
“But I was hoping that this time I could lead you”, I replied.
“You know you love it”, she whispered as she pushed the button marked

**Stop!!

My wild ambition loves to slide - ye all must understand
But fortune's ice prefers only the most virtuous of hand.
In Malaga I grew weary and wanton to possess
The most colorless canvas, one easy with a lazy happiness,
Disdained by golden fruit to the viewer be
As I passed the crowd to gently shake the tree.
Now manifest in paint, inward contrived and long since
I stood in bold defiance with the heart of a prince,
Held up on the square by one wanting to buy my latest cause.
Against the wind I held it up in spite of all the laws.
Do they wish to thicken my lot among all their other mistakes?
What circumstances find you this? -This is what my mind makes!
The buzzing of my emissaries fill my ears
With many solitary jealousies and fears,
Arbitrary thoughts brought forward into the light,
Contemplating existence, must it prove my vision right?
Weak are the arguments! Which the true artist knows full well,
Where weak minded people curse my renderings or are easy to rebel.
For am I not governed by the moon and by the far off stars?
Tread lightly on me and don’t put me behind your own bars.
And once in a shard of time let the Annunaki’s scribe record,
That my vision once rendered could somehow affect their lord.
The unrecognized Enki still wants to be a chief, yet none
He created was found as fit as barren Adam.
Not that he wished his greatness to create,
For leaders should wish not to be called great.
But he like I know our titles are not to be allowed.
For titles are useless and only dependent upon a crowd,
Those are kingly powers, thus ebbing us out, they might be
Drawn by the dregs of a falsely acclaimed democracy.
But in my paint I attempt, with studied arts to ease,
And shed the unholy venom with visions such as these.
On the other side of the canvas, not much escapes my eye –
But once in front of it – nothing escapes the me that I call I.

The grand wind blows as it hums along –
This dark and grey velvet morning - the sun barely risen.
A well dressed classy drunk smears her finger across
The doorman’s lips and whispers, “Please don’t tell anyone.”
She stumbles along while someone in her way curses -
A garbage truck outside stops and reverses -
– beep – beep – beep.

Standing there in her favorite long coat
The desk clerk seems to gloat -
Gloat over every marvelous thing she ever wanted.
In this, the one day when she is thinner -
Outside a siren shrieks repeating the tormented,
Is she a saint or a sinner?

Finally the quiet idles up there eternal
Inside her blessed Penthouse suite.
From her barred window she watches a crosswalk signal
Still standing in her long winter coat.
Across the alley she sees someone on a fire escape,
As they wrap around and disappear down the funnel.

In the serenity of the street below a Cupid like boy
Salutes his mother at the bus stop.
The mother stoops to pat him on his noggin.
Then mommy makes a sculpture of her packages,
As the boy salutes again.
Up there behind her bars the drunk thinks she is different somehow.

Taking off her coat she opens a book entitled “Value”
Finding a written sentence that ends with “come back to me now.”
She gives her legacy a second look
And thinks how absolutely - positively - wondrously dear -
If only she could believe what she had just read -

And then she disappears.

Are not thou supremely good and wise,
Imparting these prodigious gifts - not in vain,
What wonders are reserved inside the breadcrumbs reign?
Amidst the breadcrumbs - the arguments have shown
Such truth’s only given to guide us all home.
Your visions’ mildness I shall not condemn,
Taking up my pen to force your diadem.
'Tis true, Q grants the people what most they crave,
Even more perhaps - than mortals ought to save -
For lavish grants suppose the monarchs were all tamed
With more than goodness than my wit can proclaim.
But when should good people strive their bonds to break?
If not when evil tyrants are negligent or weak?
Let Q give on till he can give no more,
‘Lest we find ourselves homeless and poor -
And to every shekel which Q can retrieve,
Shall it cost a limb, a choice - or a prerogative?
To supply new plots, shall be not my core,
Nor to plunge us deep in some expensive war,
Which, our treasures were never meant to supply,
We must, with our remaining kinship, refuse to buy.
Oh faithful friends forget our jealousies and fears
Call on each other to solve the issues, don’t rejoice in tears.
Whom amongst us, when our aid is torn,
Shall be left naked and left to public scorn?
Are we not the next successor, whom we fear and hate -
If we allow these obnoxious leaders of state
To turn all virtue into nigh and overthrow
And denounce all righteousness both good and foe?
Q’s right, they fight for sums of personal gold,
The collateral is all of us to be pawned and sold -
Like sheep to the slaughter, Where We Go One We Go All.
They corrupt their titles into law,
If not, we the people have the right to reign supreme.
We did not make them the kings, these kings are made by them -
An empire has no power unless that empire has trust -
And without trust, it can no longer be just.
Take them all down for the general good redesigned,
In their own wrong any nation cannot be defined.
In altering that, we the people can be relieved,
Better the evil ones suffer, than all nations grieve.
We all know their evilness their sins they chose,
God was their king, and God they durst depose.
Call now on your own piety, your spiritual, filial name,
It is our right, to be fearless and let us build our own futures’ flame.

Found on the date of nine – two – three – two – oh – one – seven -
Barely more than one month after the grand eclipse of heaven
The revised twelve stars of Leo crown the head of the ******.
In her land of milk and honey, her labors merge in.

Jupiter encircles the womb while within the Holiest of gastronomes.
Mercury, Mars and Venus conjoined with Leo’s nine making the dozen.
Seventy-five days prior the New City’s Trumpet has merged with Put In
Calling for Levant’s retribution which will divide ancient Ebian within.

The ******’s head newly crowned with the temporal twelve stars of Leo,
At her feet quiver the sun and moon awaiting the arrival of Palladio.
She being with child cries in the pain to deliver.
The earth quickens the mystery in perfected position, as both quiver.

Nine months prior the consummation completed by NATO’s resolution
Casting out the promised land – this is real – this is not the imagination.
Jubilee last appeared on the eave of the six day war
Marked by half centuries, Jubilee returns this year once more.

The revelations of tribulation are set by a single star that does always appear
Every two thousand years and four thousand years ago it founded Israel.
Two thousand years ago this same star led the three kings to the king of all kings.
This star is visible for two years and appeared in September two thousand and fifteen.

And yet another sign appears in the heavens: behold a great fiery Red Kachina
Having seven followers and ten outcasts with seven headbands in the arena.
The Red Kachina drawing in a third of the stars, hurling them toward the earth.
This Kachina standing at the ******’s feet waiting for her to give up the birth.

The Red Kacina’s vile evilness waiting to consume Jupiter’s birth failing
To devour the newborn who is to lead all nations with a rod of iron.
But the child remains in the heavens with it’s mother to feed grazed
By the Red Kachina for one thousand two hundred and twenty six days.

Found on the date of nine – two – three – two – oh – one – seven -
On that day a far greater kingdom of Persia shall be reborn.
United again their prince of war shall endure a crude destruction.
The fires of Hades soon spill out upon the seduction.

Six fortnights later the earthly engine grinds to halt
Followed by rumors on every side.
The very laws of nature open their rightful vaults.
The power of lesser animals can no longer be denied.

The hottest lines - one after the other I devour
Salty - sultry - tasty - juicy sweet like a toasted flower.
The ink runs from the corners of my brain,
Oh God, have I been eating poetry again?

I made the mistake of swallowing one set of rhymes when
The librarian appeared, putting on her necklace chained
Reading glasses while looking down her nose.
Her eyeballs rolled, her head shook out her woes.

Tearing off another page with her walking toward me,
She was about to release the dogs - I had nowhere to flee.
She stomped her feet and began to weep
As I crumple the next page into a heap.

She backed away as I snarl and I bark,
Crunch, crunch, crunch - swallowing all the way to the question mark.
Finding her nerve she approaches me with a moan,
Then I watch in amazement as she tears off a page of her own.

Folding it up in the palm of her hand, she smiles
And growls and shoves the whole page in while
Pulling out another book from a hidden pocket in her dress.
We sneak off together into a hidden recess.

The hottest lines - one after the other we devour
Salty - sultry - tasty - juicy sweet like toasted flowers.
The ink runs from the corners of our brains,
Oh God, have we been eating poetry again?

With baited eyes we snarl and bark
Chomping with joy in our bookish dark.

Too many religions
Too many interpretations.
There is truth in their folly.
Each religion beautiful in its own way.
Each one incomplete by itself, each naming
The Infinite Light, - God, Allah, Yahweh or Buddha rendering
A human division when True Light is anything but divisive.
The blessed mother Mary, the crown jewel in Catholicism,
Was she Catholic? - I only ask of you the truism
Found in this simplest of questions.
In her life, the word Catholic never even existed.
The Infinite Light appears in all religions - as fluid
As the Love that each of the religions seem to know.
In the common threads between the religions an echo
Reverberates through the world enlightening those who realize
That Faith is unanimous and Love is something that we can materialize.

So the question, no matter how it's asked it is always the same -
Do you believe in God?
I do not mean - do you believe in some religion's fairy tale,
I mean - do you believe that there is some power greater than ourselves
Which is The Light, The Infinite Light that created everything that
We know of and all that we can ever know of?

I like to think of it like this;

We as human beings utilize only a small portion of our brain.
If you place the human brain under emotionally charged situations,
Such as, meditation, joy, stress, fear or physical trauma - then the neurons
In the brain begin firing resulting in an enhanced mental clarity.
You may say, 'So what, just because you are thinking more clearly -
It does not mean that you are communicating with the Infinite Light.'
But you must also agree that sometimes unfathomable answers to what seems
Like impossible questions occur in these moments of clarity.
Biologists call it 'Altered States'; Gurus call it 'Higher Consciousness';
Psychologist's call it a 'Super Capacity for Sensation or Feeling.'
Some call it Psychic, others simply call it crazy.
Religions call it answered prayer.

I say it is simply an adjusting of the brain to learn what the heart already knows.
Each of us already has the knowledge given unto us by the Infinite Light -
We only need to open our minds and hear our inner self.
So please don't dwell on the differences.
Find Peace in what makes us all the same.

I was a planet explorer
Long before they explored
The planets

Then I was a farmer
Long before they toiled the soil
With their hapless endless rows

I was the black man, the red man
The white man and the yellow one too
Long before there was any separation

I was a cowpoke
Long before there
Were any herds

I was your cabin boy
Long before you ever planned
That well deserved vacation

I was a pioneer
Building my home of mud
Long before there were any houses

I was a stream
Before there were any streams
For I filled each one of them

With my own silvery pearls

Here is something that I read in the headlines today
And I AM OUTRAGED… (Just kidding guys...)
It goes like this;

“An ex-communicable hubbub broke out in the halls
Of the church today as a certain group proposed
That a super God named Sofia created God
While depicting images of the feminine deity.”

(Can you imagine such a thing?)

The article went on -

“The conflict is over the lefts’ constant barrage of
Attacks to modify references of a male being the
Supreme deity by pointing out that God also has” -
And I quote, “Motherly qualities.”

What an awful a thing - I just don’t know how these
People get off the bus without knowing they are on
The Lunatic Fringe – who do they think we are?
(Again I’m being sarcastic here.)

Back to the article;

“United Methodist leader, Dado do dis do dat said
At the annual conference of the 12 tribes of Brooklyn
That no comparable words of heresy had been spoken
In the last 15 centuries and that just when the church
Begins to lose its grip on powers and principalities,
Weird sort of things like this start to happen.
He went further stating that these ideas must be
Eradicated from Christian thinking.”

Or what? Or these women are taking over?

“Bishop Dado do dis do dat continued – We wanted
Woman speakers who could carry on the Christian
Tradition – but look what happened.”

(You haven’t heard anything yet.)

“The women, who were venerating Sofia as a Goddess
Used ****** images to express the divine and held a
Workshop on belly dancing.”

(All right -)

“And went on further stating that the woman claimed
That with their hot wombs they give formula
To life and with the nectar between their thighs -
We women create the world as we know it.”

(LoL… go Sofia… )

(This was a real article in a real paper.)

The point here is this.

We are in the age of Aquarius and
The Aquarian age is a feminine age.
And that’s what we are experiencing.
There are those who will, for their own
Reasoning, exaggerate both sides of the issue -
Jesus said it this way, “It’s just birthing pains.”
Before the child is born there is a lot of difficulty.
But the child that is being born into this age
Is a beautiful thing.
Move over Dado do dis do dat,
There’s a new sheriff in town
And she ain’t likely to put up with
Your crap any longer.

Names changed to protect the guilty...

These flakes that fall - ever so effortlessly,
They bathe my mind with their peace and liberty - tranquility.
They have no rule and yet no precedence found
No law circumscribed - falling flawlessly upon the ground.
They cover the wildest desires of the woods and caves,
Turning these savages into bitterly cold slaves.
Snowflakes times billions, to and fro they blow,
Making fresh and clean of all they forego.
Hidden within the silence - a gentle song they bring.
Listen, listen can you not hear them sing?
They recover every note and they give their best,
Laughter, loving, so cold yet only the warmest expressed.
Beckoning me to play along so they can be obeyed,
I place one keyboard on the handrail I made,
Turn it on and listen intently to what they create.
Yearning to learn from my new classmate,
Random bolts at first with no formal design,
But somehow begging for me to join.
With another keyboard I listen and strain,
Allowing the snowflakes to quietly reign.
I close my eyes and touch the keys with their wise delight,
Saw searing sounds, honest and right.
In contemplation I feel their deepest of scars,
As they cover the memory of all the civil wars.
They moderate the worst of men, now disqualified,
Inclined in the balance taking them to the better side.
With calmness my fingers manage it well,
And my hands find no occasion to rebel.
Listen, listen can you hear the love as it leans,
Be careful Devil, the flakes will erase all your means.
Softly covering all those ill desires,
The good old cause revived, this their plot requires.
Darkness turns to a powdery white erasing all of everything,
Raising up the common-wealth, covering the evil kings.

My nature, once pleaded for one of these darling ones!
The amazing hope only found in the fair women down here.
A strength found only in the wilderness having the ability
To drink bourbon until dawn being absolutely naughty
And then the next morning to show you how to properly
Use a fork and knife while signing thank you cards.
To be raised up to all the heights any man could bear:
Has my God ordained my fate to be southern reborn?
Perhaps he has indeed given this soul another turn.
Gullied without a patriot's name, have I lost my sense?
Yet to be treated as if I were by law a prince.
Am I so brave or just this Belle’s tool?
I never saw a patriot yet that wasn’t a fool.
Here comes she now with religion and the laws
Should I be Absalom or should I be David's cause?
But I am the instructor, or have I lost my place?
She has taken me over with so much grace.
Good heavens, how fast must a patriot pant!
She stole me away by saying “A saint I ain’t.”
Pulling off my shoes as she pulls me down from my throne
I cross my eyes as I moan and I groan.
A kingly battle within the sweetest of torments,
Was their ever a prerequisite or my consent?
The look in her eyes – flames, fire and fury – nothing to lose.
Inferring this infernal night is ours to depose;
Oh God it’s true she’s petitioned me to approve her by choice,
But are not my hands still powered by my voice?
So my pious subjects, for my safety please pray.
I do think this Belle has taken all my will away.

I prefer the sultry ways of Summer
On a lazy sweltering hot afternoon.
If summer were here all year round -
I’d be so perfectly browned.
Oh you can have your mistletoe
And your Halloween masks too.
I prefer my short shorts and sandals
And warm cozy nights by the candles.

Oh Summer if you were a woman
I would surely run away with you.
And if Spring should ever let us come in
We'd surely show her what to do.

A view of blue leading a glaring eye
Toward a deathless heaven’s sigh.
Softly sinking the trembling sun,
As haply as I look upon you as I run.
In these thoughts I find myself desiring
God’s art within this simple man’s inspiration.
I look to the East, I look to the West
Looking for the primmer, Heaven’s Rosetta Stone, lest
It all be to difficult to keep it in heaven's focus.
I clean the lens and offer its richness
To a legendary creature somewhere adrift.
She gazes through my eyepiece bereft
Of the inner truth that she sees.
Focused ahead of you, you see the Helix Nebula
Otherwise known as the Eye of God, the Alpha,
The Omega, the Beginning and the End.
It’s then you see your body transcend.
You look from the eyepiece and then into my eyes
And I feel us tantricly knowing that we are soul mates.
“What do you see?” I ask as you turn back into the scope.
You answer, “I see the thread of hope
That holds the entire garland together.
I see that we are small and the world is big.
I see that we came from the one end and forever
We will return to the other."
Looking away from the scope she continues;
"In between in this life there is a contradiction
A duality – And if we are to ever experience
This oneness, the one mirrored in this eyepiece,
Then we as a pair need to break
Through the apparent reality and take
Hold of the hidden reality."
Looking back through the eyepiece
She continues, "That which I see
Is at the source of our dual niche.
Accessing, manifesting..
Mastering this duality returning us always
To source.."  

What cannot my praise effect in your singular mind?
When flattery soothes – or when ambition is blind!
Desire of the heart, is it an earthly vicious seed?
Yet, sprung from high, is it nothing but a ****?
But to God 'tis its glory and when love aspires,
'Tis but a spark of the most heavenliest of fires.
To the ambitious youth, thou too covetous of the flame,
Too full of the vermin running throughout thy frame.
Unwarily led astray from any virtuous ways -
Made drunk with love, and somehow debauched with praise.
Half desire, and half consenting to the ness of the ill,
For in the blood the sentiment - cannot it be still?
To thee I must reply — pray thee - what pretense have I,
To take up arms for justice or for your love’s liberty, I cry?
Love governs with an unquestioning right,
Love’s the defender and love’s the delight.
Be ye good, be gracious, be just, be observant of the laws,
And in loving wonders - be ye especially espoused to love’s cause.
Whom has love ever wronged in all its peaceful reign?
Love cannot sue for justice for any judgement would be in vain.
What millions has love pardoned or has taken on as foes?
To what revenge does love get even or even mildly expose?
Mild, easy, humble, studious and good,
Always inclined toward mercy, never spilling any blood.
If this is the love that you know put it on like a suit,
For in you -  you have God's most beloved attribute.

Sometimes love sets sail on some distant journey
To get farther and farther away from me.
I see the journey going round the world
In the most vivid color – as an apparatus
For its own painting – or at least so I presume.
I long for love's conversation but
It is too far away it seems.
What wretch is this that hazards this life?
What thanks is this nature capable of returning?
This wretch will be repaid only with
Insults and injuries.
Any blessings in store for the meek and the
Gentle heart might be disinherited by it.
If hope is that which keeps one alive
Then I should by my hope be kept afloat
Both in spirit and in looks.
And in love's journey, would it ever know me again?
Would it know me as if my pleasure is left
Behind in a kind of resigned misery which arises
From this situation where a heart is unsupported
By everything but its own tenderness?

We all owe love much and I will have patience.
For love's journey – it does round this Cape of Good Hope.
It will undoubtedly begin the long trek home again –
Sooner or later - the least I can do is to hope.
The demand – it is equal – for I owe it as much as love owes me.
I watch as its treasures float away making of it
Conjectures upon each part – all the while thinking that
The distance is but a little ways off and I know
That I could venture after it – I’m sure that I could –
Were I to only understand the reason for the distress.
But what if nature has chalked out another road?
Must we go on with so many a weary step?
Each in a separate heartless track till nature
Takes this journey’s course wherever it will?

Love asks me why – why do I say this?
Why do I write such a somber set of words?
And yet – it knows I follow it alongside its journey.
I beg of it to return while the heart of love
Tells me why I do this – as with everything that I do.
This journey does make a shadow of love and if I am
Good for anything I must remain true to the mortal part
Of its agreement – but that mortality does allow for me
To think and talk upon everything, does it not?
I rally my words, my powers and my alarms not to
Send ill winds to push love's sail farther away from me
But rather hoping that it will meld them all into one.
With the hope that within my power
With the most ardent of affections – they will triumph
Over all these feelings.
Standing aft on the vessel of love with its spyglass in hand
Look closely at me – I’m just off its bow.
I’m in its wake paddling trying so hard to
Keep what is left above the waters edge.

I wonder what infection it is that passes in this
affected crisis?
The contrary winds and currents leading this track
Could be the engine of nature working it together –
Or apart.
Tis true, it know it is – or should I just continue
To leave nature to her own destination?
But the language and the embodiment of love
Should not be left to mere chance.
If I swim harder toward it would love at least drop its sail?
Maybe I should speak no more - whatever the currents carry
May they carry the gentlest illusions through
The spyglass – and I suppose somehow they will.
If the remedy is but a cold philosophy then
I shall remain here undaunted by the distance – frantically treading water -
While love carries away with it the balm of my existence.
If so – somewhere round the Cape of Good Hope
Is where love can find me if it should ever choose to return.

I am here treading water as best I can in love's wake
As its vessel sails ever further and further away from me.
It is love who must decide my fate for I am doing all that I can.
I flail my arms side to side hoping against hope
That this Cape of Good Hope is not where love abandons me.
But I refuse to drown and I refuse to give it up
Just as ardently as love fails to turn around and see me.
Please don’t turn around unless you too understand
That our fates are indelibly tied together.
If this wretched thing does take full possession of love
Then it too has possession of me.
Like a baited hook I swim here watching and waiting
For the shark to come and swallow me up.
And all this time all love had to do was to – STOP.
It’s almost too late for that – the distance is so great.
I cannot swim that far.
I close my eyes and dream.
My tears flow into the ocean around me
So I know I’m still here.
Swimming for my life –
Somewhere just off the
Cape of Good Hope.

Oh words, a vile pit of clay to be formed for each guest they meet.
Shall our digits press upon them in this way or that as a creaght
Of thoughtless claws within a lying dainty love of the gravest making.
Let not these words be the reason that we are forsaken.

I form out of the clay a form of an empty skull.
Yet has not this skull a tongue in its hull
Like a politician who drowns out the emptiness of its head?
One whose reach would circumvent God himself - as if the almighty were dead.

But my skull says NO! Good morning my sweet Lord!
Thou, my most highest idea, have mercy on this – my gourd
And tell us how to oust these screeching clowns.
I see the good book inside this face, tubes of you and other pointless nouns.

A Politicians’ speech - as empty as an empty skull full of worms
Whose bone is worthless to all but its breeding.
Watch them – never listen – watch their tongue as it squirms.
These people only see words as how they can be used to be misleading.

How absolute this knave is who speaks from a card.
An invocation made not by pure thoughts but infiltrated by lard
Greasing the mind into inclusion with nothing but simple sounds.
With hair and makeup and clothing – and the empty skull - they are the clowns.

Barefoot - the walk up the beach alone
Is a journey alongside passionate waves
Like walking on anchored cotton
Each step anxiously craving the next sandy touch.
Oceans of water join in the experience
Retreating around my feet.
My long shadow follows me like a kitten
In the orange day glow of the evening light.

In my mind I recreate passionate times
While tickled feet squish into the unarmored sand.
Each thought complete in its own uniqueness.
A delicacy of emotions racing in with the tide.
The hopes that were held most dearest,
The fears that kept most things inside.
Am I dreaming or awake?
It’s hard to say –
The lullabies of the waves are my friends
Gently singing, returning me to the shore.

The walk now becoming long
The sun is beginning to close its eyes –
The kitten is no longer there.
Without even a shadow, I
Have never felt so alone.
What were once clearly discernible objects
Now become something jutting out of the earth.
Slowly they begin to glow with the new moonlight.
I continue the walk.
What is ahead? What is behind?
Either way it is just another step away.

Some of the objects must be buildings –
What lover’s secrets are being told inside?
The wind beginning to blow it shrills by me
Over the sand, past the objects to the sky
Onward to the stars above.
I wonder – can the wind carry away my loneliness?
Somehow it stays with me
Locked away deep inside.

Looking toward the ocean for answers
Shedding my clothing I oppose into the tide.
The cold liquid awakening me from my numbness.
Surrounding me like as if a billion tears.
Submerged to my chest – a dance begins.
The earth at my feet
The wind in my hair
The water all around
And the sky above with
This fire - kindled by all of the elements -
It burns deep inside of me.
And for one brief, settling, moment
We – the elements - with the tide

Are one again….

Is there ever
A beginning
To anything
Without its end?
Or is there ever
An end
Without its beginning?
Or is it that “if” there
Is a beginning -
Then there must
Be an end?
The invalidity of
These questions
Bear witness to
The feebleness of
My human existence.

But grieve not for me
Ye simple travelers
And fair
Mystic Nymphs.
Instead – go pluck
The roses
And scatter their petals
In thy path.
For God himself
Has done no more
And ye cannot
Be better served
At his fountain
Of riches or
Show a better decorum
Than to bring ye
Rosy smelling feet
To him.

Only when one’s face is
Dressed out in the
Pearls of our tears
Are we sure that
We too are infected.
Tis’ a pity when love
Is stolen for it is
Always good though
Not of much use to
Anyone else.
But the heart is for beating,
Is it not?
There is very little
Else in it.
The scriptures say that
If we are as good as
We are handsome
That heaven shall fill it.
But reading that
Says nothing of its pleasure.

Or is the love one’s
Heart finds
Like the rose?
Once plucked
Its petals thrown
On the ground
Reminding us of
The love that
Was once whole?
If so, those petals
Must somehow
Remember us.
Of course -
That must be it.
They remember us
By the smell
Of our feet.

Bare feet come running down the stairs and
Then they run right through the screen door bursting
Onto the front porch stopping only briefly
To look at me and smile – then Zeke plants
Those feet once again as he runs and jumps into my lap.
The church bells begin playing their toll while
This beautiful 8 year old gift bounces back and forth
Chanting – Happy Birthday to Me – Happy Birthday to Me.

On the walkway out front a half dozen people pass all
In their Sunday best as Zeke waves to them still
Singing himself his birthday song.
None of the six wave back – all toting their Bibles
Shaking their heads ignoring Zeke - and me as well.
“How come you don’t go to church?” Zeke asks turning
Those bright blue eyes up toward mine while scratching
His right foot and with a small lock of hair across his left eye.

“Let’s see, you just graduated the second grade, did you not?”
I asked already knowing the answer pushing the hair out of his eye.
“Yep,” he replied - “Teacher says that I’m now a third grader and
She told Mom that she was going to see if the board would let
Me skip the third grade because she thinks it would be a waste for me.”
“That’s great Zeke,” But what do you think about that,” I ask?
“I don’t know, I try not to think about it – I don’t want to lose my friends,”
Zeke said with that small, sweet childish voice that makes everything understood.

“It’s OK Zeke, it’s OK to be frightened of the unknown – hey – you being
Almost a fourth grader – how well can you read now,” I asked?
Quickly he turned and grabbed my paper saying, “I can read anything, Grandpa.”
With that he read the headline on the small town gazette.
“Supreme Court Upholds Ban on Ten Commandments Abolished from Courthouse,”
And then he continues on with the rest of the article.
It’s clear to me that he knows the words but does he grasp their meaning?
I let him read the entire article aloud and when he finishes, “How was that,” he asks?

“That was great Zeke, really good reading,” taking away the paper from him.
“Now tell me what you read, what did you learn?’'
“Umm, the court said that the town cannot put the – the commands on the walls
Of the cord house,” he said confidently.
Knowing this little man did his job as best he could
I patted him on the head in approval saying, “Very Good, real good.”
“But why don’t you go to church Grandpa,” he asked again?
“Do you now where I keep the Bible,” I asked him back?

“Sure, it’s that big book on the coffee table, isn’t it,” he stated
While pointing to the adjacent living room wall.
“Yep, that’s it – why don’t you go get it and bring it out here?”
Without saying a word he was back on the porch floor with
Those quick feet headed to the screen door – patta-pat-patta-pat
Inside – then he rewinds the effort as he comes back to me
With the large 5 pound Bible in hand.
Handing me the Bible he climbs back in my lap.

I scrunch him up under my arm with his legs and feet out straight
Placing the Bible in his lap and opening it to Matthew 19:23-26.
Pointing at verse 23 - I ask Zeke to read the verse.
“I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of 'the' needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. When the disciples heard this, they were greatly astonished and asked, “Who then can be saved?” Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”
Zeke laughed - “A camel cannot go through the eye of 'a' needle,” he said.

“Not so fast Zeke,” I said questioning his reasoning, “Are you sure that you know
What is being said?”
Zeke looked at the good book, “I think so?”
“OK, look at it from Jesus’s point of view.
In Jesus’s time there were 12 gates to Jerusalem and
One of those gates was so small that they called that gate
The Eye of The Needle and it is this gate that Jesus was
Referring to – Now does the verse make more sense?”

He leaned back into me saying, “Yes – now it makes sense -
Jesus was talking about a gate that was hard to get a camel through.”
“Good Zeke, so now you see that it is important to understand
The meaning of every word and of every phrase – otherwise - your
Mouth is just spitting out meaningless words and if you do
That often enough other people learn to do the same thing.”
“But how do you know this grandpa?”
He turned those blue inquisitive eyes upward to me.

“Because I’ve seen the remnants of the Eye of The Needle, Son.”
We sat there on the porch all morning – him asking –
Me trying to explain things – when all at once he turned the pages
Back to the parable of the Eye of The Needle and he pointed
At the scripture saying, “I see why you don’t go to church, Grandpa.”
He reread aloud, “Who then can be saved?” Jesus looked at them and said,
“With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”
He looked at me while pointing to the verse.

“No man can save us can he grandpa?”
'Happy Birthday, Zeke,' I said smiling as we rocked away in our own harmony.

Praise not the barren, praise the rich consummate flower,
Fair only to those without sight, so full of internal power.
None nobler with an unlimiting petaled command,
Given by the earth’s love to all the native land.
Given a successive name, tall, short, light or dark,
Drawn from those once hidden away in the human Ark.
It is now, as when on the holiest of land
No less joyful as it spreads around my willful gland.
Covering the breach, and lengthening the strand
Rising like the Prince of Consummation’s imagined height,
Coming tumbling downward with diminished fight.
To unbetray the plot free of public scorn,
For this is our only blessing until his blest return.
To all those heaps which one petal does nigh bind,
Blown off, and scattered like tumble weeds that unwind.
What strength can you or your designs propose
With naked friends who round you upturn their toes?
If the flower is doubtful of how it should you use,
A foreign object would more satisfy its queenly news.
The proud stamen would assemble a friendship ring,
Foment the battle, and support the coming King.
Nor would this royal party ever unite
When in the flower’s arms, it strains to set it right.
Or if understood, the gripping interest soon shall break,
And by odious aid, make the reed return to the weak.
All sorts of vessels, by their successful arts,
Abhorring the panting, encountering their altered hearts.
From love’s incandescent rule, and a heart beats nature’s cry,
Thought, passion, common-wealth and health all belie
As the flower is the champion of all the public good.
As into her arms falls another chief of royal blood,
What may not the suitor hope, and to what applause
Might such a King regain by the flower’s cause.

If an impeccable ally is false or the implacable ingrate
Resolved to ruin or rule our combined fate
Or to encompass us with the blood oath bonds they've taken
The pillars of our safety shall forever be shaken,
A jilted child removed from a foreigner awakened.
Then seized with fear, yet affecting fame,
Usurped by an intruder’s unatoned name.
So easy still it proves in falsely factious times
With public zeal to cancel their most private of crimes.
How safe is treason and how sacred it’s ill,
Where not even a child is safe to be free at will.
Where evil marchers are all hoodwinked and their offences not be known,
Since in each other’s guilt - they confuse and hide their own.
Yet their fame is undeserved, for I am their enemy with a giant grudge
Once a child that they abhorred, but praise be – I am now their judge.
In my court they sit for me to annihilate their scheme
With my discerning eyes, with these hands that are bloodlessly clean.
Unbribed, unsought, these wretches I redress -
Swift to dispatch them to ease the victim’s distress.
Oh, some call me a heartless hanging judge,
As I dispense my medicine on this vile blood thirsty sludge.
But had I the ownership of these evil souls freed
I’d hang these oppressors twice hoping to redeem their evil seed.
A hanging judge I’m truly not, I’m just a historian in love
Setting heaven straight for the one I serve, the true guardian above.

The red light’s red but I’m turning right,
The coast is clear – no cars in sight.
I make the turn and I make it slow
On the corner sat a huge cop on his hog.
Sirens blazing like he was late for his grog,
Behind me he flew with lights all a glow.


Pulling over to honor this beast's demand
I already had my license in hand.
He brought his big carcass up to my window
Grabbed my license and ask me what I’m into.
Nothing I said, I’m just headed home,
Then he dripped some sweat onto my chrome.

All at once he started swatting at what he thought was a bee
I said it’s just a horse fly so let it be.
He bent over and looked at me through the window
While asking me, what the hell is a hoss fly?
Not a hoss fly – a horse fly – I said through the window
You know – it’s a fly that flies around and around a horse's ****.

He got a little closer and pushed down his shades
And asked me if I was calling him a hoss’s **** in spades.
I said – no sir – not at all – I would never ever
Do anything like that at all – that for me would be too terse.
He said something that I couldn’t understand
When then the fly lit on his Foster Grants.

Cross-eyed he handed me back my license
And began swatting at the thing creating the offense.
But the horse fly was faster than he and had more sense
As he slapped his shades off across into a fence.
The fly flew around and around his head
While he backed out into the street like something ******.

I reached through the window and pulled him out of the street
For a car was coming and they were sure to meet.
Realizing now what he had almost done
He shook my hand and said I could go that we were done.
But one more time he stuck his sweaty face in mine
And asked me once again if I was calling him a hoss’s ****.

Again I said - no sir, absolutely not but that I couldn't lie -
Sir, you know - you just can’t fool a smart horse fly.

Am I merely an entertaining guest?
If so – in the course of my entertainment
Perhaps I should have resigned
All of these cursed talents one after the other
On the principle that no matter what -
There is no way that I could keep them all.
Perhaps if someone else had these curses
And they were not in my brain -
Maybe then I could become a regular Joe.

Yet I ask – Is it that I am the one let in
To show off my own wit or is it
That I was let in to see the wit of others?
I call upon heaven itself to bear witness
To the fact that even now,
I have never once opened my lips.
Even so I am told by most that they have
Never had a more improved conversation
With a man in their life. Strange.

How crafty and artful I must be to
Speak without ever saying a single word.
Have I some gift to UN-people them from
Their dominion over their own
Ideas of Love?
Or are all of us mere objects of our affections
Hiding about as slaves in a church while not
Actually believing in anything?
Could a slave defend the citadel anyway?

In my mind I form designs toward
All sentiments of every religion finding
That beauty has its place buried
So deep in worship that even the
Church is but a slave to its effects.
But life itself is not so adamant.
It comes and it goes flowing through
First one and then another having no
Such chain or restraints as does the
Fleeting song of beauty which in time
Steals all beauty laying waste to us all.

Likewise, religion too is a waste if it
Is based purely on the beauty of itself.
My lips are not moving now either
But they are neither dead or fully alive.
But if they could they surely would say
More than an entire encyclopedia could
Say by just saying that one single word aloud.
Yet if I said that one word aloud
Everyone would take me to the corner
Pinning the badge of idiot upon me.

So remember of me this -
I am as much a slave to this mind
As this mind is a slave to life.
The price for this mind’s freedom has
Within it an honest reckoning of which
I can neither avoid or deny.
Inside my mind there is a slave fighting
Diligently with my every sentiment of honor –
Both cherished and despised by this, my inner revolt.

Yet I grow ever stronger even as I battle myself.
Though I am often forced back down
To a slavery system which forces me
To be a slave to that one word that has
Within it the ability to set us all free.
While it both loses us and finds us
Somewhere inside of this silenced art.
I need not say the word for if you are
A slave to it – as am I – you already know it.

Ssshh – just write about it – don’t say it out loud.

'Tis damp, cold and lonely - not much bigger than a closet
But the little room within me is mine.
It has no niceties such as an address but
To one side – when pressed upon hard enough –
The walls open revealing the many hidden chambers inside.
But the walls have no doors and until now no one has ever
Stayed long enough to find out the secrets hidden inside.

Then here you come along – you who has scarcely warmed
Yourself against these thoughts when I feel that look.
You spin around and around in the small wit that I am -
With the most perplexing look I have ever seen.
With words I press upon you to sit here within my thoughts
But the case of your look is the case all by itself.
All I can feel is your resentment for bringing you in here.

My hard planked thoughts and plastered breaths are not
Favorable - even to my own sensations – as if I am trapped
In some sort of desolate, silly omnipotence –
But I dare not mention my little hidden room within.
Though not a thing is left to be wished there is nothing
As terrible in it as the knowledge that you think I am possibly
Absent of the capacity to supply you with your inner most basic needs.

The glow of health and happiness somehow leaves your cheeks
And your brisk lively conversation seems forever removed.
Like a stone in the road, I seem to bring you
More distress and I wonder what stupidity had led me
To bring you here to fumble around in my mind.
As if we are both too delicate to communicate -
Our tangled tongues and fingers say not a word.

I want to say,
“Please, please press harder against these walls
And you’ll see, you’ll see that the muscle and tendon
That covers these internal walls are
Just a parody for my own protection.''
I feel the mistake of moving this thought closer to you now.
At first you squirm to get further away from it
But in doing so you struggle and push against the thought.
But herein - a single thought falls from my mind.

I watch as you ****** it up an unfold it and
Proceed to open my imagination to this wrinkle entitled
“The Little Room Within.''
I watch you as you read peering through my facade.
You proceed to pull out another wrinkle
Then another - and another
Until the room within me is no more.
We enter deeper and deeper inside of each other
Like children on our hands and knees –

– And I –

I
follow
you
all
the
way
to
the
inside
of
me......

A constant companion that I know all to well,
No shadows following wherever I go.
No other life to show and tell.
It is with me
Though no one I see.
Where do I put this thing called lonely?
Who do I share when it is me only?

It follows me around
Wherever I go,
It makes not a sound
And it weighs on me so.
The God I know is always with me
But he has not a breath
And even though he does give comfort, you see,
He is God, in a way as lonely as me.

Isn’t that why creation, is not that why you and I?
He turned nothing into something
And if you ask him why
He will say it was in the name of love.
I question not the reasoning
When he says it was lonely above.
But not one breath can I create –
I am not God.
So must I trust it to fate?
This seems so odd.

Through the long lonely night the lonely shares my pillow.
Always there
Somewhere between a heart that is shallow
And another one that is where?
Does anyone understand what this is all about?
Does anyone care enough to stand up and shout?
I don't even know how to begin
When these walls have sunk so far within.
The walls keeping the lonely in ahead
Of everything else instead?

But from the depths of the shadows of my soul
I rise above the darkness that follows
And look back through the old
And feel it within me - what could have been
If only life had a chance to begin.
But these things, are not meant to be.

For it's just me and the lonely.
That's all I can see.

A major storm was brewing as I
Alighted back to the hotel when the porter
Told me that a young woman in a yellow hat had
Just moments before inquired about me.
I thought nothing much of it other than of its odd nature
Taking my leave from the porter with a thankful nod.
Entering the towers making my way – not to the elevator-
But to the stairs – for I often opt for the more difficult path.
As I went up the stairs coming to a landing 5 floors below
My own, I met a young woman in a yellow hat coming down.

I stopped to nod and give her free passage down the staircase –
Making sure not to fail in waiting upon her to pass - she stood
Staunch still in front of me saying, “I was afraid you had left town.”
Then she asked, “Do you have a letter for me?”
Somewhat bewitched I tried to think of what she was referring to
But my mind was so full of the yellow hat and those inquisitive eyes
I had not the presence of mind to understand her question, let alone
The ability to search for any logical conclusion.
“A letter?” I asked thinking only of the scarlet letter.

It was the darkest, stormiest of evenings in the latter part of May and
Even here in the stairwell the ozone smell of lightning was present.
When she spoke again I noticed the smell of the ozone was
Not of the typical “storm” type but rather that pleasant firmament
Was radiating from this yellow bridled – creature in front of me.
I knew I had to beat down my temptations, so again I asked, “What letter?”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a torturous half grin on her ruby lips, opening
The palm of her right hand revealing a small golden box – she continued - and as she
Continued I became aware of her accent – “My father, he past last week” –

“I’m so sorry,” I said interrupting her – “Please tell me – who was your father?”
She looked down at the box with a tear in her eye, “He is – was the count De Conti.”
Immediately I knew of who she spoke because I had had dealings with him before.
“I’m so sorry,” again I repeated purely out of stupidity not knowing what else to say.
“He said I was to find you and give this to you in exchange for your letter.”
With that said I thought I knew of what letter she meant – or did I?
“It’s in my room,” I said with no more attention to detail.
I led her back up the doubled five flights of stairs holding her by the one hand
While in the other she held the golden box.

At the door I fumbled with the card key until the little light on the door
Turned green – I opened the door to my room and she entered.
The crimson curtains – the same pattern and colors of the bed –
Were drawn closed, the lightning reflecting a more reddish hue
Than I remembered the curtains having – so warm a tint it affected the
Mademoiselle’s face – Somehow I took it as a blush so I blushed myself.
We were quite undeniably alone which induced a second blush before
The first one could get itself fully free.
It was a pleasing half-guilty blush where the blood is more at fault than the man.

My virtue flew impetuously after it – not to call it back mind you but
To make the sensations of it more delicious to the nerves.
Knowing these feelings are not sent by the righteousness of virtue,
I searched for the letter for five minutes, opening drawer after drawer then
Luggage piece after piece unable to think clearly – the devil was in me.
He I knew well as a capable adversary, whom if we resist will surely fly away
But I am not usually one to combat this formidable foe, fearing that I myself
Will be harmed in the combat – generally I don’t do anything and by my
Abstinence the devil must get bored of me and leave me alone.

The fair mademoiselle came close up behind me as if to help me search.
“Do you know what was in the letter” she asked?
I nodded yes and then she opened her handbag taking out a tissue and
Handed it to me along with a pen – “Then write it down,” she pleaded.
I wanted to yell, “Then I shall write it upon your fair lips,” but I knew
If I did I would surely perish, burned at the stake of honor – Instead I
Took her by the hand and led her to the door.
Then she did the unthinkable – she turned and placed both of her hands in mine
As if to say that all was alright with her.

It was impossible for me not to caress them in this situation.
I wished so hard to let them go but I held onto them all the while.
Her eyes looking into me with that yin and yang quest where
Her stare made me focus on her perception of myself.
No sooner did the inner struggle begin to fade than I found
Myself having to fight the battle all over again with my limbs
Trembling at every idea that filled my head.
Letting go of her hands, I took the pen and put it to paper not knowing
What to write -I scribbled something and started to speak when…

When last I noticed the bed should have been several feet from the door.
I still had the pen and paper in my hands when it happened – and I
Can give no logical account of how it happened – or why – I never asked her
Nor did I pull her – neither did I think of the bed – but so it did happen.
We both sat down.
Beside me she opened her hand again showing the golden box.
She reached first to her left pocket, then to her right pulling out a tiny key.
She put the key into my hand holding the box up toward me.
Seeing the key hole I inserted the key and turned it to the right.

As the box opened I felt her other hand on the nap of my neck.
I heard the box begin to play – “Somewhere in Time” as she crossed
Her legs beside me – I noticed that one strap of one of her shoes was loose.
Listening to the chiming melody I reached for the strap to buckle her shoe.
As I did so my guilt ridden feelings got the better of me and I said,
“I’m so sorry, I have something to confess, your father never gave me a letter
To give to you.”
After putting the strap into the buckle I lifted her foot and in doing so
I must of unknowingly threw her off center – and then
As she laid back on the bed pulling me with her -
She said, “I know, I have something to confess to you as well.
I wasn’t ever really looking for one.”

Lord - if only I could be as wise as I am witty
Within as much enjoyment as I measure my melancholy,
Another thousand years of things have I to proclaim to you.
For in such a reason my mind lags along
Wanting you here inside of me to say them to.
But alas, aren’t you so far away now even as you hear me?
And what is such wisdom to a foolish heart anyway?
Yet I sing not a melody of broken spirit,
I sing of you, you who teach me daily – of fortitude
Blended with tender qualities which make you such a precious thing.
The kindest of protectors whose passive courage holds up
More than I could ever hope to overcome.
With little wit and in my truest form I must say to you,
Is it possible that you forged me out of some mistaken being?
For I feel as though I must be your total opposite.
For if I was made of the same cut as you, perhaps
I could know you more.

“Even the great oak can be cut into smaller and smaller segments.
But did not each part once live as the whole?
Is that not what we are?
What cut would you be if you were not cut from me?
What sap runs through my trunk that does not runneth into your bud?
I myself watch as you flower into your abundance.
But even the smallest of trees, the Dogwood, its leaf does bleed
Upon the whitest satin tenderness in display of my earthly sacrifice.
Think upon yourself like this:
Even upon the creation of the earth, it appears as if the lands are separate.
Were they not once a shared shore, similar to your soul.
I laid them out postulate by the great ocean’s force.
Yet is it not also true that what appears as two great separate
Bodies above the surface,
Are they not actually joined together underneath the abyss?
Neither ocean nor any rift could ever separate what roots below.
So I can hardly do it now.
To thee and thine art, which is at my root,
They are the object
Of which these acts of mine are directed.
Indeed, do I not interfere with your every project?
You rise and you go to sleep with me on your brain.”

My heavenly father - your mastery is but a sweet interference.
And if by your interference I manage to conduce any
Segment of happiness to you,
May they all be the proof of my affections of thee.
May all my inquiries become just one, one holding your honor,
Your conduct and your truth and your regard for my every direct step.
Movements measured within my desires with your assistance and assurance
Of those things that support all life.
Do you hear my declarations?

With the warmness of his hand on my shoulder with my eyes closed
Focusing on the light within me - I listen and then I know,

**“Dear one, one day we will again return from another delicious walk of your deliverance.
A walk that we will tread upon a thousand years all over again.
Here in my garden I will watch as you
Swing your arms walking within my covenant with you.
Should we pass the great oak tree cut into pieces we will ponder
The us that once laid there.
We will count the rings that measured the years that
Bear witness of the time we were separated.
I will have you always beside me, as I do with all of my children.
For hours and hours we will share in the wonders of each others' council.
I will look back on your art form, and I will admire you for it!
Every trinket that you have ever given me has within it my equaling force.
If for no other reason than for the art form that I inspired in you.
Just always try to remember that I walk hand in hand with you
In this life or in any other.
One ring around another in a never ending circle of life.
Be like the mightiest of Oaks,
Grow tall so that you can be seen by all.
All the while reaching higher and higher toward my skies.”

What art in Heaven is unknown to the heathen?
Lest the scriptures write of adolescent teens.
For the scriptures build an ark and the arc
From which we must all be reborn in the barque.

With the strength of the carpenter’s lieutenants
The gallows outlast ten thousand tenants.
The faith in ones own wit is the noose indeed
As is the church’s wit when their sovereignty be decreed.

Is not this parchment made of sheepskins?
Like the fine carved furniture of the followers of Louie Quinze.
But of these carvings was once a beautiful tree.
Like the lamb – it was forced to its knee.

There a man placed upon their remains
Words and pictures of the self it proclaims.
But to God they are still a tree and a lamb
No need for the words or pictures he found.

Am I somewhere betwixt the many worlds?
What is real – what is not?
Am I a fornication of my imagination?
Or am I simply a puncturing of a place in time?
I confess – nowhere – nowhere is where I’d rather be.

There, these earthly sediments fall to my feet,
Aged ballast no longer holding me to the past.
Thoughts traveling at light speed
Covering the vastness of my universe.
And in solemn slumber - reality does orbit me.

One thousand times the speed of light
Is possible to us taking up the flight.
A new journey beyond the scenes of the past,
Conjoined with others finding similar tasks.
First level, second level – the remembering goes on.

Without any struggle we are to understand
What God has created within a single hand.
This universe – this inverted reality in its form –
With us – the living – on the inside – trapped
By the never ending boundaries but warned.

There we must find that we are the masters
Of our heaven and earth – for ‘tis
Up to each of us to figure our own worth.
If one dies without believing in himself his soul
Remains separate but still worth retrieving.

Yes – because we are the creators – our light lives unchained
By the boundaries that we call space and time.
We can pass over to the other side –
To the other side of the inversion.
There we learn the true meaning of the diversion.

Walking as we may looking back into the
Inverted universe we become one with our dreams.
For ‘tis in life that we test our souls – yes –
It is in the singular act of living that we opportune with giving.
One pair of hands – they can remind so many….

Alive, one voice is all that is any,
In his image, our thoughts are of what he is within.
Those everlasting thoughts creating the future of light.
Freeing ourselves from the illusion of the endless night.
Finding our places on this side of the inversion.

Where do you remember the line of your being?
Must you depend only upon seeing?
Listen - to - one - who - has - seen - the - inversion.
Live life giving – make no diversion.
The beauty is that it is your choice to make.

What will you create?
Darkness – or light – or – something in between?
Don’t wait too late ….

The universe awaits.

Somewhere in the darkness of morning
Or in the evening just before noon
Lies the dawning of midnight
Throughout the sleep of afternoon

Mixed emotions hidden by daylight
Darkness empties the room
Dinner comes to me at daybreak
The sun shines on the moon

Feelings captured in emotion
Care little about the time
With a handhold on tomorrow
The future was yesterday

Can you see that forever
Is just a daybreak away
Life isn’t about tomorrow
And not about yesterday

In the darkness of morning
The moon shines at noon
Stars beckoning the evening
To come on too soon

Life cannot be about tomorrow
And cannot be about yesterday
Life has to be about the present
This thing called - today

How long wilt thou - this generation of deceit and joy – detain,
Starve, and defraud the people of our holiest reign?
Content ingloriously wasted to pass by as our falling days,
Like the flooding rains, as virtuous fools chase each other’s praise:
Till all thy fleshly allegories, now dimmed once shined so bright
As the multitudes grow stale - tarnished with each day’s new light.
Please believe me, ye youth by whose royal fruit thy must be
Gathered before ripened - else ye rot upon the tree.
Heaven itself must be sufficiently allotted, soon of late,
Like some unlucky youthful revolution born purely out of fate.
This false fate whose notions if we watch with skill,
For does not human good depend on human will?
Fortune rolls upward like lava, smoothly it does ascend,
From its first release, it takes not the bend.
But, if un-seized, it glides away like the wind
And leaves us - a late repenting fool far behind.
Now to meet with you, the you reading of this glorious prize,
As I spread these wisdom words before you as above you he flies.
Had thus Old Noah, from whose ***** we all offspring,
Not dared, when fortune called him to be the lead offering,
At the bottom of the ocean in exile he might still remain
And Heaven's sacred anointing oil would have been in vain.
Let Noah’s successional ages to your heart engage
And not shun the examples of this prophesized declining age.
For behold soon there comes three days of darkness to the skies,
As the shadows lengthen into the airs and then we slowly vaporize.

Hi Tonto, what’s up?

How Butthead.

Tonto, why do say how?

Why white man say hi?

I don’t know Tonto, maybe it’s slang for hello.

Funny, white man put the word hell in greeting
Then convert to hi, which mean way up there.
Human being say how instead.
Means same thing.
Means, how high is hell.

Oh come on Tonto, you’re pulling my leg.

Tonto no pullem leg, Tonto tellem truth like totem pole.

Speaking of totem pole, Tonto, why do you call it a totem pole?

Cause no matter where human being go
He tote truth and pole with him so remember
From where human being come.

OK, tell me the story of your totem pole.

The lowest level on totem pole about time
When male part of human beings was slave to
The females of tribe.
Male have power but woman have strength.
Strength and power not same thing.
Strength beats power always.
Man have to use power to serve woman’s strength.
Woman was Goddess, ruled supreme over
All human beings.
Time was peaceful, never need warriors.
No one equal but opportunity for all.
Then woman have boy child.
This one boy child was bad seed and not mind.
Before long, boy child drive all crazy.
Strength tell power to take boy child into woods.
Boy child survive and sometimes sneak back into camp.
Boy child steal what he need to survive.
Sometimes, boy child dress like woman,
Sometimes like man.
Strength scared of boy child.
Power see strength afraid.
Power say, man protect woman from devil boy child.
Woman agree.
Man gain power, woman lose strength.
Man see that lie gives him control.
Woman now become servant.
Man continue lie for many moons.
Man appoint another man as shaman
Or religious leader to continue lie.
Male become more powerful as woman
Depend on man’s God to protect her from devil.
Many moons later, woman forget she Goddess.
Male just meant to serve – but now he in charge.

That’s a neat story Tonto.
But I know it isn’t true.

How?

Oh, now I get it, that’s why you say – how.

Yes, men greet other men by saying how
As reminder of how we overcame women’s strength.

But it’s a fairy tale, Tonto.

What make you say that, Butthead?

Ok, if it is true what happened to the child that
Was put out and left in the woods to die.

Devil child became white man. He lose all his color.
You, Butthead, you are truth of human beings’ story.
Human beings no longer live in peace.
Man have power but still have no strength.
Woman give up strength for security and protection.
Earth still in turmoil.
Will always be in turmoil until man learn what
Woman already know.
Might does not equal right.
No two people are equal.
But all human beings deserve equal opportunity.
Your kind, Butthead, you part of bad seed.
You perpetuate the lie that man make good leader.
Only woman have sense enough to lead.
Man too busy beating chest and fighting
For females to know how to lead.
But woman, in her the hope of the next generation lives.
But as long as Butthead on top of totem pole,
Human beings live afraid of devil.
Fear rules, not with strength but with power.
World remain always in heap big mess.
Man beats chest and control females.
All because of the threat of the bad seed
Hidden somewhere out there in the woods.
Boy child should have got **** beat.
Boy child become Butthead instead.

I close my eyes and in the darkness
I see you, my enchanting ecstasy, walking
Down a cobblestone street in silhouette.
Carefully placed footsteps echoing the
The pavement - without the slightest of regret.
Through the faint gas lit corridor
Vintage smells and a whispering wind
Accompany my meandering thoughts.
No matter where I go -
No matter when I go –
Footsteps going forward
Revealing the past.

In a cumbersome transom blended
With a tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap
Of a horse drawn carriage –
Therein a song is revealed.
Where else but in silent music do dreams
Blend reality with one’s emotions?
Aye - there in my mind’s eye -
Tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap.

Do I have any life but this? Tap -
If not - let me lead it from here. Ta -
No death there be ‘lest - Tap -
Dispelled from there. Tap -
Nor any ties to earths to come. Ta -
Nor any action in any effort of new. Tap -
Except in the blessed extent - Ta -
Of this other realm of loving you. - Tap -

And in my mind’s eye –
The music,
Tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap -
Of cobblestone and hoof –
Ta-tap
Returns me to ....

Clouds rolling across our azure sky
As far as my eyes could see.
The white man told us another lie
For he just couldn’t let us be.
Behind us all of our homes were burned,
Nothing as far as they were concerned.
Destroying us and all our years
Marching us onto the trail of tears.

Behind the mask they wore a disguise
In an attempt to cover their lies.
Teardrops falling like rain
While our blood spilled again and again.
One in front of another across our sacred land,
Oh if only we could have had our last stand.
Destroying us and all our years
Marching us on the trail of tears.

First the weakest fell, then the old
Then the youngest, all turning cold.
First my Aunt, then my mother,
Then father, my son, my brother.
I carried them all as far as I could
While the soldiers beat my manhood.
Destroying us and all our years
Marching us into the trail of tears.

I focused on one soldier with a crooked cross
As he told us it wasn’t far off -
I must killed him a thousand times.
He laughed and spoke in white man’s rhymes
As my feet began to bleed.
Cold, hunger, thirst, the water we need -
Denied to us and all our years
Marching us down the trail of tears.

More than a thousand miles we walked
And yet today my people are un-talked.
Could you walk barefoot in the cold that long
When all those you loved fell so wronged?
All for nothing but a gold filled piece of land
From which we, my people were banned -
Removing us and all of our years.
Crawling us along in our trail full of tears.

True love must assert a soul binding liberty -
But what is right in you, seems like a crime within me.
Your favor leaves me nothing else to require,
You answer my every wish and long out-run all my desires.
What more can I expect while I live?
All your princessly diadems that you so sweetly give -
On that: there you pause; then sighing, you said,
This is justly destined for your worthy head.
For when from my toils I shall at long last rest,
This latest augment of this life - oh I’ve been so blest.
Your lawful issue shall to my lap once again ascend
To the collateral damage of my heart that somehow you end.
My love, though oppressed,  moves toward your light -
Dauntless  –  secure  – full of a native fight.
Of every royal virtue that you surely must possess;
Never be still dear, be the bravest, be you, be the best.
Your courage knows no foe, your truth to proclaim
It is your loyalty that I hope is your biggest fame.
Have mercy on this nave my dearest find,
For surely you must be of the forgiving kind.
Why should I then repine against Heaven's decree,
That somehow, someway - you fell in love with me.

Floating into this maddening, tumultuous trance,
Mocking my own fatigue wherever found.
Snatching wide the emptiness
Riding abreast against high silvery clouds of harmonious sound.
My shell – an object to be inwardly consumed -
Standing weakened, balanced 'til the convulsive wind awakes.
There thick hung vestal torches gleamed
'Neath my silvery feet, while placid masks
Sear the senses enlightening the heart of all things.
Unwashed joys share my earthly blooms,
Cheek to cheek un-faded in the thought it brings.
My soul linked to this shell like a common galley slave -
With my nature born with all the love to hold the forms I make.
Yet it crumbles me with each breath with the greatest loving caress.
Golden fruit hides the scathing ache
As pleasure un- hides all that once laid hidden;
I gave all I have hoping my ideas took.
The cloud blooms as the winded music fills the air,
Time stands still buried in my reflective look.
Feeling this flush of pleasure that invades my stare;
My soul shakes loose the burden of my flesh.
Then like a gallant kite flinging high
I chide for it is not vanity nor is it fresh;
It borders on brutish within a vaporous tunneling sight.
Nature's cadency dancing to her joy of strength
With harmonious limits of her enlightened might.
I give all of my impulses to these, my un-minded lengths,
Within the melody’s measure my rapid heart tries best to keep.
The winds of my breath making me a cloud with weightless turns,
Devising me deeper into this place that makes my bodiless soul weep.
Within that prodigal overflow of life that love spurns,
Sweet sounds shed from me like white garments with flowery coronals
Making me holy in the pageantry of my fates.
The beautiful sound, a measure of time in circles
Stirring my heart until I can no longer await.
Then when the dizzy tunnel spins again youth falls from me.
And it blooms once again then shrinks back to its original size -
Then come the many smiles with a glow on their honeycombed faces.
Dream- wondering I fade into the skies
Like an unaccustomed ghost stumbling over my own grave.
For my grave is always just 'neath my feet with its placid face -
But with a melded mind I meditate on my love riding life's waves
Giving that death mask a smile within God’s gentle loving embrace.

I see you sitting beside the road under a tall Elm tree
Near a thicket with a stream running by at  your feet.
Your head held up by the one hand
With your elbow resting against the tree.
Your body turned away from me on one side.
Dressed in a velveteen camisole top with a white skirt – all alone.
As I approach you - you turn your eyes toward me
And say, “Shall you not leave me too, my love?”
Looking into your eyes I see somehow that I must be invisible
Because your question was not meant for me.
It was for the very thing in the essence of love.
Tears trickle down your cheeks
As my heart and soul sits down beside you.
You allow me to wipe the tears away
And I watch as they reappear one by one -
Falling ever so slowly into my offered handkerchief.
Then I set my handkerchief into my own tears and
Then back into yours once again.
All the while feeling the most
Indescribable emotions – ones for which
I have no way to dispose of or account for.

Taking you into my arms I say to you:
“Yes, I am positive that I have a soul within me and
All the scientists, nor all the learned professors
Or all of their books combined could ever convince me otherwise.
I know it must be true, dear one –
Because you could not be so lucky as to have the only one.
If ever love does leave you –
It will be to go to heaven to make sure that
Your place is properly prepared for you.”

You lean into me, holding me
Like a lost child in a never ending maze.

And then I awaken…
Another night passes into the morning of the never was.
Are things the way they seem
Or are they simply unfinished lines - just because?

We are the face of Christmas
If you’ll look inside you’ll see
In a place where only children hide
That’s where the face will be.

The Christmas bell ringing on the door
As I exit the small downtown store on 5th and Main.
It reminds me once again that it is Christmas.
On the sidewalk a cold North wind flushes my cheeks red,
I tighten my scarf tighter around my neck.

I round a corner and just across the street I see several
Gathered around a large table, all waiting in a line.
Curious, I cross the street and take up my place.
I look around the line to see a sign that says –

“The Real Santa Clause- $1.00”

One by one people step up to the old man behind
The table and hand him a dollar –
The old man reaches into a large red bag under the table
And produces a small doll of Santa Clause.

One step at a time I move closer to the old man until
It is almost my turn to give him a dollar.
I watch as those in front of me walk away with their doll,
Each one walking a few steps away and then they abruptly stop,
Looking back to the old man, their eyes with a questioning awe.

It’s my turn – finally - I step up to the table with my dollar in my hand.
I hold out my dollar and then it becomes clear to me that the old man is blind
For I have to find his open hand to place the dollar into.
He accepts the payment and opens the red bag feeling for my prize.

The old man chants “Merry Christmas” as he hands me the doll
Seeming to talk more to the doll than he was to me.
Receiving the doll I repay the emotion returning the “Merry Christmas.”
The old man nodding his head as if to say yes all the while.

Walking away I look down at the Santa Clause figure in my hand.
I notice one piece of clothing that doesn’t seem to fit.
The doll has a scarf wrapped around its head.
It’s a tiny copy of...
Of the scarf that I am wearing!

Quickly I unwrap the scarf from Santa’s face and find –

The face on my Santa

IS ME

We are the face of Christmas
If you’ll look inside you’ll see
In a place where only children hide
That’s where the face will be.

Is it a warm bed on cold night?
Is it a cup of coffee shared?
Is it eyes glimmering – book ending a candle light?
Is it a kind word or a gentle touch
Or is it simply understanding much?

I think a Valentine must be
Learning - Showing,
Pushing - Pulling,
Holding on for all your worth.
Never doubting - never pouting
Knowing that seeing isn’t believing
It’s more a matter of trust.
Daring to share
Without a care
Of loosing one’s own self.

Becoming one isn’t just fun
It’s knowing someone’s there
Looking for what we call love.
Maybe sometimes it’s just a matter of lust.
But when your heart is breaking
And there’s no place to hide,
If you find my hands upon your face –

I’ll be there by your side.

What is truth?

Unfortunately –

No one can be told what the effect is.
You have to know for yourself.
What if this was your last chance?
After, maybe there is no turning back.
You can take the red pill and the story ends.
You wake up in your bed and believe
Whatever you want to believe.
Or you can take the blue pill
And stay in wonderland as I show you
How deep the rabbit hole really goes.

Science says that we are made of detritus
Stuff exploded from distant stars.
Get over it, I say, celebrate it.
After all, what nobler a thought
Could one ever cherish
Than the knowledge that the
Universe lives within us all.
So look up into the stars and with each
Twinkle, wink back to the ancestors they truly are.

There is nothing for which I have
Painted out for myself so joyously
A riot of my affections as in this journey
Through the inner part of my dreams.
Sometimes my thoughts are gated away from the
Dreams which suffers me to be somehow unfit.
But as I gain an awareness of each and every
Mindset, a festivity arises in me with a knowledge
That the father is in the background
Of my every foregrounded piece.

But sometimes those gates are not so easily opened.
Somehow, with each line the locks open and I vibrate differently -
A feeling so deep inside that the effects render me entwined.

That's when I sit up and shout,

“Oh, eternal fountain of feelings,”

I place my hand over my heart and repeat:

“Tis here I trace thee,
Tis here that thy divinity stirs within me.”

I move my hand to my forehead and continue

“Dear God, is love just some pomp of a word?
You, are you not the great sensorium of the world?
You know my languish and you also know of my symptoms.”

Taking my hand from my forehead sitting now Indian style
With my hands on my knees facing upwards.

“I come oh Lord just as I am, without a plea
But that thy blood was shed for me, so I come.”

Closing my eyes looking down in reverence
While thinking the thoughts of the master.

“Would God place a boulder in front of the blind?”

“No my Lord.”

"Would God speak out loud to the deaf?”

“No my Lord.”

“Would God put Love out of reach?”

“No my Lord.”

And then in this concurrent dream state
One sage after another appears to me.

“You will ***** around in broad daylight, just like a blind person groping in the darkness and you will not succeed at anything you do. You will be oppressed and robbed continually and no one will come to save you.” Deut.28:29

“My heart beats wildly, my strength fails and I am going blind.” Psalm 38:10

“Let their eyes go blind so they cannot see and let their bodies grow weaker and weaker.” Psalm 69:23

“So I let them follow their blind and stubborn way living according to their own desires.” Psalm 81:12

“Is there one who made your ears deaf?
Is there one who formed your eyes blind?” Psalm 94:9

“For the wise person sees while the fool is blind. Yet I saw that wise and foolish people share the same fate.” Eccles. 2:14

Looking up from my inner self,
I see the darkness gaining its entry in.
The battle that is without is also within.

“I sleep but my heart waketh : it is the voice of my beloved
that knocketh saying, open to me my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled:
for my head is filled with dew and my locks with the drops of the night.” Song of Solomon 5:2

“And it shall come to pass that in the last days, saith God; I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh and
Your sons and daughters will prophesy and your young men shall see visions. And your old men shall dream concurrent dreams.” Acts 2:17

Rising to my feet I know now that it is
In my blindness that now I see.
It is in my deafness
That now I hear.
And in the darkness
Like the stars at night,
That is how I see the light.
In these many, many concurrent dreams.

Where am I?

Where do you think you are?

I don’t know, that is why I am asking you.

You are where you wanted to be.

But what does that mean?

Oh I think you understand.

Is this an NDE – a Near Death experience?

There is no such thing, you are either here or you are alive.
There is no in between. There is no such thing as - Near Death.

OK, is this an after life experience?

What would you have it to be?

Am I dead?

Do you feel dead?

No, I feel very much alive.
Again I ask you, where am I?

You are where you wanted to be.
You are in the now, the one you created.

What does that mean?

You are here in the everything.
You have become the everything.
There is no longer anything that you are not
And in this new experience, this ALE – as you choose to call it –
You are experiencing the grandeur of yourself.

But I am not anything grand.

Oh yes you are for the almighty has been and is now experiencing
Himself/Herself – through you.
In my purest form – I am the absolute.
And in that, you too are a part of that absolution.
I am absolutely everything.

Are you God?

From this absolute purest form, I am whatever you make of me.

What do you want?

I don’t want anything of you.
I simply want what you want.

I want peace.

To find peace you have to also be everything.

I can’t be everything.

But you already are.
If you are not everything, then there is something to need,
Something to want, something to demand.
And from there – you cannot have peace.
For without everything one can only create chaos.
And I am everything that I am and that includes you for
To be every thing one must also be any thing.

If I am this every thing – am I not as you made me?

What do you make of yourself?

Somehow I remember you made of me.
I see myself now in purest form – the one I cannot forget.
The one I am now returned to.
Anything else of me must be fiction.
Something I made up.

Is the one you made up a jealous person?

Sometimes.

Are you jealous now?

Who could be jealous when one has and is everything?

Is the one you made up in life an angry – wrathful person?

Sometimes.

Are you angry now?

What would cause me to be angry when I no longer can be hurt
Or damaged in any way?

Is the one you made up in life a vengeful person?

Sometimes, I guess.

Are you vengeful now?

Who would I take out my vengeance on?
Am I not a part of the everything?
Do we wish to punish me for what I was?

Why would I want punish you – a part of me
That I have created?
And even if you considered yourself apart from me,
Why would I create you and then give you the freedom
Of choice to create whatever you wish to experience,
Then punish you forever for making the wrong choice?

That’s what I’ve been taught.

I tell you this, I would not do such a thing.
And in that truth let it free your heart from
The fear and tyranny of a jealous, vengeful and angry God.
For in your purest form, those are not your attributes either.
So what you’ve been taught is all wrong.

Then why am I here?

You can come here anytime that you wish.

That’s right, I did choose to be here didn’t I?

Yes, you did.
We can be together whenever you want.
The ecstasy of your union with me is yours anytime you want me.
Not just here but at the drop of a hat or the feel of the wind
On your face, or the sound of a cricket under a silvery moon.
And especially in a new born babies breath.

I felt you in my last breath.

Yes, I am always there.
I’m there in your first living thought as with your last.
I am here with you now, even until the end of time.
Your union with me is always complete.
It simply always was, always is and always will be.
For you and I are one – both now and forever more.

I didn’t do right by the gift of life that you gave me, did I?

But you are here with me now, is that not what you wanted?

But if I hurt myself, I must have hurt you.

You created your own reality, that is the gift that I gave you.

And I abused the gift, did I not?

I will not judge you for what you chose to create.

I’ve never felt so much love.

It’s because you’ve never chosen to know of it.

Is it possible for me to make another choice?

Always and forever – anytime you do not like what you have
Created you can think again and create a different reality.

I think I want to do that.

There you go, just put that word “I” in front of what you
Want to create and know yourself in that reality.
Go now and re-make your life as a statement of our truth.
Cause your days and nights to be filled with your reflections
On the highest ideas within you – the ones you now know.
Do it through the expression of our love,
Eternal and unconditional for all those lives you might touch.
Be a light unto the darkness and curse not the light.
Be a bringer of light.
You are that, my son.
So be it.*

*“We’ve got a pulse.”
“Give him some oxygen.”
I heard those words and shortly thereafter
“Welcome Back” as I opened my eyes.

The voice was a feminine voice and she was holding my hand.
So I’m here again, now.
So when you read what I write,
Read it with this in mind.
I am no longer a jealous, vengeful nor angry being.
It’s still me but I’m not the same.
I was dead before I died.
And now I live life in the hereafter - the one after I arrived.

Having answered my ad for a handyman
A knock on my door offered the first applicant.
I am apt to hire anyone at first sight and
Never more so than when a poor supplicant
Is as myself but I know my own weakness -
Though that knowledge usually proves most worthless.

I let the man in and his look alone
Already predisposed the situation to be in his favor.
So, as usual, I hired him first and then began
To inquire of him what was his traver.
The man looked up to me and replied ”say what?”
I stated, “ Your sir name?”

He looked puzzled and stated, “Sir name, what’s that?”
“Well it’s your last name, sir.”
His voice quivered as he spit it out, “Nazareth.”
I kinda chuckled, “Say What?, Your first name – is it Jesus?”
He nodded his head as I half jokingly asked “Is that Jewish?”
“When can you start,” I asked handing him a wrench.

I explained that I had several tasks that needed completing
Knowing full well that a Hebrew can do anything.
We started with an outside light fixture which needed reseating.
I showed him where the ladder was and in a flash as he was riding
It up when 'Yahweh' started a low but cheery tune whistling
As he glided up the rickety thing.

I swear to my soul had the man been able to do nothing but whistle
His delightful tune - I would have not been better served.
Having finished that task I took him to the next which required a chisel
To skim off a bit of the top side of the front door which had become curved
By its constant dragging upon the frame.
He whittled it out whistling all the while just the same.

And from one task to the other we went fixing, repairing
And finishing them all until I heard his stomach growl.
I looked at my watch – it was after 12 – swearing
To 'Yahweh' that I had no idea that I had made such a foul
Keeping him from eating his lunch.
He not having one was my hunch.

“No worries,” I said as I led him inside.
We feasted on onions and tomatoes with all the trimmings.
When finished I made us a *** of coffee with a piece of fried pie.
As we ate I asked him what that tune was he was whistling.
He said he didn’t know the title but that he knew only the words.
He started whistling each line of the song like a songbird.

Between each whistled line he’d stop and speak the words.
The words went something like this.
“The lips of wisdom should always be closed
Until the ears of understanding are fully exposed.”
I had never heard this song before but from somewhere -
And I know not where – I seemed to be aware -

He continued whistling a line and then saying the words:

The mark of an intelligent mind
Has the ability to entertain
A controversial thought without
Necessarily adopting it.
Then he just whistled on as he got up from the table.


I paid him and he set out the door back to his life
As gallantly as any man ever does.
He served me a day that ended up being my whole life.
At the end of which I whistle as I go
About my day satisfying both my physical
And spiritual need to play and to know.

“The lips of wisdom should always be closed
Until the ears of understanding are fully exposed.”

Whence do ye derive from all destiny so great and gigantically,
Within thy Shakespeare’s eye - doest ye see all that love is intrinsically?
Like, “Pummeled inside so many a verse we ride along for better or worse.”
Only the faithful remember where from that line dost come.
And if thou art my good and faithful friend, pray tell me, what is this curse?
Oh I’ve scored your sonnets, I’ve played your plays passing so many a day
Emulating your way and yet all I’ve written is bound to decay.
But my good and immortal friend - is all that you possess at home with me?
Ever is destiny as blind as the righteous are *******.
If the righteous met you on stage would they not see you like Yorick - beheaded?
But ‘tis only this stage which hosts your heart, to your enduring greatness.
And as your spirit comes to me in my pen, help me set it right again.
Here - I, the buskin of old that has not vanished, I push my pen
Toward thy inward powers and feel within my fingers - you move -
Doubtless swells of ink and chalice with words meant to soothe.
You trace my heart within your palette and as I watch - we appear -
One letter after the other in the affected black knowing nothing of fear.

But do I not have two hands Sir, William?
What say I scribble with the right whilst thou writest with my left?

And with the left hand I write...

At great length I consider Aristotle’s thoughts mighty -
When sewn onto a lamp shade - but he himself is not as easily seen.
Round him were seen a flock of birds screaming
Of my tragedy’s with the wailing of a dog’s bay marking my dramas
Around as by chance, by chance I stood giant over all my terrors.
My bow is extended, the lock bolt released, words affixed
On the string, steadily aimed at your heart.
And hast not the line, “Alas, poor Yorick” found its eerie way into
The lines of Hamlet – lines that I never wrote into that play?
For they only doest exist in the collective minds of the readers.
Oh, aye, I wished for my soul that I had written that line
But it is one that I cannot claim exists in my play.
Doest thou venture forth with a hardier action now?
Thus to descend to the departed souls found in the graves here.
‘Tis here I lie in broken words to ask the prophet of where
My soul relies – to see Tiberius I come – the old Grecian –
My nature to be amused but vainly so conveying up my drama.
Oh nature, my nature, hast not thy stage tread me ventured?
Aye, and naked besides so that each rib does count.
What? What truth of old is to be seen in truth set on this stage?
I come to fetch mankind out of his own doom for there is more
To this tragedy, it scarcely is over the horizon and once it begins
It will move countless souls to a harness clad misery.
‘Tis well this philosophy of doubtless sensations refined
From the humor of the blackest infections.
Aye yes, it beats in jest of stolid and barren sorrow until
It is sufficiently moist and exhibits a graceful dance.
There entwines a solemn step which a Demigod moves
Neither for naught as we love what is Christian and moral.
Here – in the nether world - popular is homely, domestic and plain.
There are no Caesars, no Achilles, no Aristotle which appear on the stage.
Neither is there any to be seen of executives or cynics of commerce.
Only secretaries, per chance and brick layers and lieutenants read the lines.

Then with my right hand I write...

“But my good and faithful friend, tell me, what can such people meet with
That which can be called great? – that is - what great can they do?”

And my left hand answers...

What greatness? You ask – Aye, they form the cabals, they pay the mortgage
They pocket their savings and fear not where the stocks be placed.
Whence they come they oft return and derive their form from destiny’s greatness.
Greatness which rises a man up on high even when it grinds him to an incarnate dust.
Everything else is mere nonsense and not worthy of any acquaintances also,
All of our sorrows and wants – they too are here.
Wherefore then fly to yourselves if ‘tis truly yourselves you seek.
And then on that stage you shall meet your own contemptible incarnation.
There the poet is the host, the fifth act rendering the reckoning
And when crime doth become sick, virtue sits down to the feast.

With a whispering wind in silence she sings -
Her raptured emotion stirring even the trees.
The old wind chime chants out its haunting ring -
Singing within her crystalline voice.
Yes she hung it long ago just where it is,
Another reminder that she was here
And somehow she is still near.
But I just cannot find it in me to rejoice.

That day it was snowing and cold.
She had asked me to hang it days before.
Somehow I forgot and I suppose that rather than scold
Me she decided to take care of it herself.
She had on her nightie, her bath robe and my old work boots.
She had the wind chimes, a hammer, a nail and a chair.
At the moment I didn’t think that I had ever loved her more.
I was wrong.

Keep singing - my darling...... please keep on singing

Sweet pliability of a woman’s spirit
That can surrender itself to its own illusions
Somehow to cheat sorrow of their weariest moments.
Had I not trod upon such enchanted ground
I would have not known the smooth velvet path
Fancied by those rose-budded petals of delight.

When the evils of the world wear sores upon me
And there seems to be no retreat from them –
I take upon me 'your' course and leave this world
Of fit and anger and find that it is only with 'you'
That I have a clearer view of the Elysian Fields
Upon which your womanly heart depends.

I see those evils wave their ugly heads in defeat
Even unto their own thoughts as you cast out the shadows.
I lose myself in you all those ill wills finding
That it is only your affections worth living for.
Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow
Nor do I do injustice to you by walking with you.

A man walks in any direction because he claims to
Walk with the issue of his commotions – for no good reason.
But in woman, at times, she walks in the direction of her
Heart as she conquers any single bad sensation of
That heart as decisively as that of reason - often sorely
Defeated before there is a fight to be fought.

They say that a woman thinks more with the left side
Of her brain while a man thinks mostly with the right.
The journey between right and left is but a few centimeters.
That distance between those quadrants can at times seem
Light years apart as if the universe is turned topsy-turvy.
Neither is more intelligent than the other, or so they say but

Science also says

Men tend to do better with tasks requiring more localized processing
Such as mathematics which is attributed to the white matter of the brain.
Women are better at integrating and assimilating information from the
Distributed gray-matter regions of the brain, which aids
In language and communication skills.
This is a generalization and is not true of all men and women.

So how is a man to ever understand a woman or a
Woman ever to be able to understand a man?
I can only attest to my own case.
If a man subscribes himself upon such an injury
That he incapacitates that masculine routing of reason
Then his mind is forced to regenerate itself creating different
Avenues of his ability to be human.

If by accident or injury he somehow disables some of the
White matter of his brain then over time the gray matter
Takes over what the white matter no longer can perform.
In essence there isn’t a left and a right anymore.
When that happens a man is open to communication
In an entirely new and different way.

What once was a bullheaded ***** thinking mainly with
Parts of himself that were more important to him than anyone else,
Now he is forced to see both sides of every issue.
Words are not the same, music isn’t the same and
Neither is anything else, not even a single breath.
So whenever you read something from one of these mutant men –

Remember what has happened to get this one to that place.

And remember always, hope shortens all journeys
By sweetening them, so sing my little stanzas
As I sing them – as with the devotion of a hymn.
If you do this every morning you will arise
And eat your breakfast with more comfort for it.
Make no mistake of it – I am a man in every way
That a man can be a man.

It’s just according to science that
I think more like a woman.
For better or worse and
Whether anyone likes it or not.
Personally I think I'm somewhere in between.

Raised on my extremes with these extremes woefully denied,
An oath silently affirmed yet mournfully defied.
Words not weighed or windowed by their sheer multitude,
Inwardly swallowed in rhyme, be they rusty and sometimes crude.
To some - truth has to be dashed with the salt within their own eyes,
Their own tears to confuse the foolishness and twist them into lies.
Do any loving words have an equaling folly to befall?
Or do you believe in nothing – yes - nothing at all?
The poets’ rites are here - to - for rarely embraced,
When what is needed is a muse, who could add flavor to the taste.
Such savoring delights I offer, to a soul in need of ritual food,
Served up hot all at once – then sinfully shared in the ****.
But by force one cannot offer these to even the gods,
For only one in a million is worthy, all the rest are just at odds.
No fraud I offer you in this, my musing trade,
But writers are harder to conquer than they are to persuade.
They are busy scribes mingling within life’s refuse,
Raking around in the garbage looking for new verbiage to defuse.
Do you hear me – do my words sit on your lips?
Touch them now – gently - and let me take you away on a thousand trips.
My words on your lips – can they truly take you away?
Shhhh – my darling, close your eyes and taste them, and their gentile foreplay.
Oh this author swears it not but only you can know
How far these words can reach or where for art they may go.
If I fail you and for want I lose my common sense,
What love will come from this or be the consequence?
My words are like raging fevers boiling my own blood,
Be careful my muse, these words often float into a flood.
For love is like water always seeking the path of least resistance,
Quiet yet powerful and oft bubbling over in persistence.
Breathe my muse; take it all in as we flow into the decent
Working up the foam as we threaten to shoot the vent.
Who among are as witty as we are wise?
I watch as my words leave those lips and shine from within your eyes.
Those eyes like reflecting pools, one by two, my holly preference,
I think God must have given us two eyes so as to cross the reference.
Kiss me my muse; please kiss me until this fatal fury has gone,
Hold on tight as I write and drag you from your rightful throne.
These words raised in power amongst our fellowship.
Words, precious words, now on our hungry lips.
May we let them ooze – oh - please let them go,
Listen do you taste them now? Only you my muse -
Only you can ever know.

Of all of these words the truest Star in heaven was first:
A name of which from all the succeeding generations burst.
With enclosed designs where my salacious counsel does fit
Sagacious she is - bold and born of a turbulence of wit.
Restless she is too - unfixed by principles or place;
Her powers unleashed with the patience of her grace.
A naked fiery soul which works out daily in her own way,
Unfettered by the gloriousness of her own body’s lack of decay.
She, the master of my mind ever beating my heart away from the clay.
A daring luxurious softness engulfing a flaming fire,
Poised with passion and waves of pleasure reaching ever higher;
Like a summer thunderstorm renders the calmness unfit,
Steering love nigh into my hands, boasting of how her touch has wit.
Of great wit we are, surely, as madness is to be allied;
As these thin partitions do touch the boundaries they divide.
Our bodies plundering our souls’ wealth loving the honor blest,
Refusing our age any needful hours of rest.
Sharing a simple body which neither alone could ever please;
For the single body alone is bankrupt, but together, a prodigal ease.
Flesh always leaves that which its touch has won
Un-feathered and four-legged making the two into one.
Oh, to my soul in my deepest huddled notions I do try;
To be reborn into the shapeless spent lump of you and I.