i'm not entirely certain this is what i'm writing about

the perfect poem

would start by acknowledging its imperfection
and yet would bind the heart to listen
in any mood
any clime, any mind...

it would forgive contingent interruptions
in its contribution to evolution

and to grandly synthesize the facts,
it would pierce its central theme in one or so lines,
a one-stroke ******
embedded somewhere safe, an apex valley
of words and symbols to communicate
rather than excommunicate
or bemuse...

an accord of human
commonality,  invitation to wonder
or to leave off reading for later|

to wake or soothe to sleep,
it would be a poem you could wear into battle
or soft-intone to soothe a dying loved-one's breath.
the perfect poem would promise laughter
after every tear, catharsis guaranteed.
it would be godly and irreverent,
honest and veiled.
erudite, but conversational: a soul-mate in the etymons.
chalk-full of sultriness,
elementally seducing
with allure of verbal petrichor,
released from a long-awaited desert cloud,
dripping at the center aching...
and all wants fulfilled
(but for the other yearnings it instilled).

even a cursory perusing-over yields
a boundless sphere of cheer!
(you may not find it here, or anywhere)
an epic of haiku in casual/dress wear...
therapeutic, silent or aloud,
empathy in every line, attentive to the reader's work.
a collaborative lore
entwining evermore and more,
tolerant of others, wiser for their scorn --
it would shift its meaning, each read through:
twelve interpretations would do;
in fact it would take up residence in you,
it would help with shopping, too,
save the queen, start a culture all its own
a witness to atrocity and fame,
a judge of victors, the criminally insane,
an analgesic to the lame.
both densely, and loosely writ
it would be spontaneous, yet crafted by a practiced art.
it would rhyme, as if the muses commanded it to rhyme
contrived at the dawn of time
to be contrivance free...
for your particular ears, for your soul, right now
an ever-present origin of meaningfulness sent
like similes for your life only --
it would foster to create within itself
expression's manifold and measure,
in line with styles all in vogue
the global culture's wold,
hermeneutic gold.
it would be made of wood, and snow
of sun and space, the universe in tow.
it would spiral, dance and sing beneath its sounds
teach a novel lesson, for novel ears,
    each and every time
it would be memorized, and hung
glazed with caligraphic meditation
in a cloister boarding only **** monks,
it would bear no clumps.
it would smoothe out all the lumps,
it would offer more than i can say...
the perfect poem wouldn't even mind being thrown away;
it would come again some day.
in fact, on second thought, it may come a different way--
created in the fae-lines of the eyes,
the ears and mind: the double prance
of in and out and everywhere resize
the meaning-giving dance.

in orca ova, swim
arisen cinnamon suns;
venus simmers so.

~

no seams seen in sea ***, nor sun, nor *****

dreamingswanseyeaperturesboxboatsevergreenstarzenithgazing



~

­

while dreaming,
i became a swan's eye,
i was dreaming through both its apertures at once,
clicking separately, click, click shuttering
both sides from out a box, or from out a feathered,
living boat, or two, severed visions
superimposed:
evergreen under,
star over at a zenith
gazing twice over
paddling under



~

moonrock, lovelight;
dim, silent, mindbreath-
interleaving sunspace;
dark, narrow, corridor of doubt--
   far below this moment lurks
         an otherwisely ancient growing sense:
              of worldliness i haven't asked again
                  (yet you are this world-to-be);
              the smile-harvest nearing,
         your touch reasserts its ever-meaning
   of dancing in the starlight i ask
my yearning future self,
of playful rolls of joy
spinning off our lichen finger tracings~
of healthiness and utter-smooth response
    to sharpness i think with full bodied thought--
        (it throbs deep into the wellspring of our self-teaching);
    of healing i ask with songs beneath the feet,
toes vibrate dream-colored peace
       like the windblown comfort of forestal goddess tresses,
             i fall upward into you even as we descend through shadowovercastings,
               even while the earth-tremble breaks our calm,
                        even though the bees fade,
                                another nectar drips from all around
                                            your inner-golden, flowered canopy of lives
                                                            (i effulge this world-to-be you are!)