The affair is striking.  To run like wind,
straight to the sky by Dark Cliffs,
you see movement of one hundred
stars.  In clear light, starlight shifts
and wraps the foliage of your heart.
Storms brew the jungle to discourse
and smiles you once felt fade to glass.
After the ascent, the signal light blinds you.
At the Signal House
(search lights scalding the sea)
you wait for the ship named ‘Desire.’
She carries a wretched bargain.
Her sails fetch clouds and her
voice herds silence.




Throats of angels sing
to the wide, wide plain.
A host of swords draw and
shackle the sky in chains.
Martyrs cry like babes tossed to shore
with wind-laughs singing around —
shrieking jackals of the air.
Behind the corrupted veil is the
whisper of a muted gong.
So, so silent breath cannot breathe
and music of life collapses the song.
The great feast of ancient words
becomes the haunt of the Bringer’s ghost.
The house of souls ring in chaotic matrimony.




The bluebird is a flame to fire
forests of the heart.  Dawn is the palm
of power and sun in the greatest hour.
A sweet melody concocts beauty in
the deep, dark chasms of the heart,
and you sing but only ash is sung.
Ash like the black of a summer night,
when the moon touches the soul and
waking humanity stirs in her chains,
a great monster in her chaotic den.
You write the poem but your tempestuous
temper succumbs to demise of the dream.
The apple of heaven glitters like a lost gem
in alleys of your shadowed heart.




I knew a maiden once not long ago
who burned desire like twelve thousand angel wings
and granted love like a sweeping sun.
Her smile did light the skies of heaven afire
and her beauty did force the nations to crawl.
But her heart stirred tears – a deluge of tears –
washing my heart as if a flower.
I thought my heart was like a mighty bridge!
But no, my heart has turned to a tossing sea
and when I speak do tears stream from my mouth.
The golden hills alive are in my dream
but when I dream, the flood surrounds
and drowns the glory of my heart.
She, mysterious and wildly captive I trap to my breast.




Your counsel is like the breath of dragons.
Hot and fiery in the swollen sun
and you snap your teeth in vehemence.
Are you the King of Thieves?
You hide in darkness, foil your hands
and whisper threats.
You are the swagger of foul swords
and the heirloom of monstrous omens.
Your voice is the bull – horned and blunt.
Your eyes speak of darkness, and your mind
glitters oceans of snowy peaks.
But your soul!  Your soul!  Beautiful
beyond reckoning.  Beautiful like the star’s
great eclipse.  Beautiful like the summer morn.





Thrice the vice came prancing back to me.
Like a golden doe it sprang in spring’s full heed
and made the flowers in grandeur bow to me.
This vice did rise all curled like an autumn moon,
so pale and fragile thought I this vice would break
and shatter heav’n in woeful gaze of mine.
I did clutch this vice, as I could not roam
without the burden of a thousand hills upon my back.
Yet what grace and splendor without the burden to bear
once I remembered the glories of youth!
A happy thought did stir my mind to ease.
I rose into the sky on fearless wings
and heav’n I shattered in my smiling face.
The little boys of happiness were never better understood.




That color of hate — red, the sun’s shade
upon green mountains.  Slowly, slowly
riding upon the seen mound, wrapped and dark
like a cloud.  The sun, mistaken
and soft like an amber sky and to
roar is an unwelcome cry.  The wild blue
same of visitations past — in history, when
time was marked black.  And where across
the earth did scatter the help I sacrificed
to the winter’s dawn?  Slowly, slowly
riding the seen mound, wrapped and dark
like a cloud.  The air upon the earth in condensed
tears — and water — the trees beyond the daisies patch.
So with the steel mind I wrench back.




I’ve had magical memories.  So alive and
brilliant you’d gasp.  But these memories are
not filled with emotion, nor are fantastic scenes of
the imagination.  Simple memories, like in the plaza
of Rome, when rain became the rhythm of
cobblestones and the sky shouted in reply.  Blue
ran across the clouds and won the race.  A gong
sounded throughout the heavens.  Rain tumbled to the
stones and flooded in tiny streams.  I saw a giant
city within the city come alive that moment.
The flash of lightning lit their eyes and the thunder
echoed their feet.  And I, above and tall, menacing
and powerful, stood as a greater man before.
And as I turned, the cathedral of God loomed, and I, in shadow.




The blessed fairy fires, the cold winter rain,
the heat of a summer kiss and the glow of a morning storm.
The wave of a crystal sea, the sea in the minds blue eye,
the weight of an age-old bone and the waking of a desert horn.
Wakeful eyes, wasteful mind, do not cry for I am chimed.
The bells of golden past have kissed me tight
and now my dreams are like a scarlet light.
Mountains formed from brittle clay and lost green sound
have touched upon my heart a kindly rest.
And now the sleep may come and all shall nest
among the nettle thorns and gossamer trees,
before the bull-horned bear and dark sublime.
And when we wake the dreams shall fade
as morning dawns in glory’s bright shame.




It’s a free-moving thought, this poetry.  Rambling from the
darkness through the pen through the page, a spray
of mind dust like the heat of my burning lamp.
I do not know the next moment, and neither do I
remember the last.  I do not recall this — this — this
moment, save the blur of ink.  And in the blur I
know the secrets of the universe are contained — deep within,
like a lost city filled with treasure in the center of a
deep sky of water.  I would cry, but I can’t for no
emotion swells.  Although I should and might, someday.
It’s a pity this isn’t taken more seriously.  What are we?
Hacks?  If I were a hack, I’d be the sound a blade
makes when meeting wood. I’d echo in the trees,
for thousands of miles, for thousands of years until…





Am I the grass on a summer day?
Does my heart not  rustle like the
leaves on a tree?  I smell the daisy
in the garden, and know this is you.  When
you laugh the earth quakes.  But your
tears!  Even the earth swells!  The skies
darken into shadow!  Do not cry little
child.  I am like that summer tree,
beating my gentle heart in lazy wind.
The love of your smile, little child, and
your laugh does bring me joy.  And when
I am in joy, I shall blossom color for
you like the rainbow dawn and the dusky
night, in the sliver of light left upon the earth.




I hate traffic.  It’s a terrible mockery of
life.  Rusting automobiles, rancid gas
and putrid people.  They swear at each
other.  They scream at each other.  And they
do not care.  The highways, they own.  He
owns.  She owns.  In her fancy Mercedes.
In her monstrous sports utility vehicle:
truck with a bad attitude.  Him and his
bumper-stickered, peace-kicking gun-toting
Jeep!  Him inside his pea of a car, that
stingy, flea-bitten-charred-spackled Miata.
And these punk kids on the Honda motorcycles.
They are all around me.  It’s dizzying.  Go away,
all of you.  Go away so I will not hate traffic.





Around the bramble bush I ran
until dizzy I was, and Miss
had caught me by the wrist
with wistful eyes and a dancing wish.
Beneath the moonlight did we walk
and I, awestruck with so much bliss.
But for the light of me to know
I could not guess what her mind tells!
She looked upon her arms so bare
and in her eyes did wish me well.
I thought I saw a tear that night,
but me to ever know why, oh well!
We are two different creatures still
among the leaves of the bramble mill.




You ran me through with iron will
and stamped my hills like the sweet skill
of mountain men against a storm
to wail their spears against the thorns.
I felt the heat of your gold eyes
as if you were the sun’s own cry.
Across the sea, across the morn
I followed you in constant scorn.
But deep within me you did sprout
a tree of beauty’s green hilled love.
No mountain man will come to hunt
my hills of green-built forest light.
When I was young you fought the ilk
that waged full war against myself.




I read a poet the other day — painstakingly
clear — describe a cafe and the woman
with a purse slung under her arm, walking
briskly across a street.  Fiddle and trumpet
lubbing the air, on the broad steps
of the cultural center.  Sweet, colorful
food on a bed of crisp vegetables.  An apartment
window open and rocking in the wind while a
desperate old lady huffs, trying to catch the latch
and pull the window shut.  The ragged homeless man
scuffling down the sidewalk, holding a bloated bag of beer.
And the sound of the poets voice: more!  more!  more! beneath
the clocktower drumming in the square.  I yell back,
but how?  A young child trips and falls to the cement in response.





This cursed pen!
No words of fantastic gemstones wail.
No words temper the poor man’s fail.
No words exclaim the happy swell
of the two brides in hearts embrace!
No words to say, “I hate you still,
but leave me be, and I’ll be swayed.”
No words to tell the weariness
of human minds when faced with rain.
No words to cry the wisdom of
a beautiful garden in winter’s fain.
No words, except the words to fell
the words that pass in the wind’s frightening dell.




She whispered in my ear, “You are the one to save
our breath.”  I stared at her in hateful wrath
and cursed her foolish name, then spat.
“I’ll have none to do with your troubling dream!
Go find yourself another man to rile him in your bloody seams.”
So then, I left with woe in heart
and felt it settle to the bottom of my dark, dark soul.
And when the sun did rise to greet the morn
I shivered in warmth’s ecstatic hold.
I was full in hate’s embrace
like a small child on danger’s face.
I held my breath in wonder till
the days ticked past and hours still.
I was too old when I understood — and then I cried.




Lovely bird!
Your wings are beautiful to me.
When you fly at dawn’s awake
I watch in steadfast love, as you rake
the heavens and disperse the doubt
that flight is but a dead man’s shout.
I am inspired at your wings beat,
the rhythm and music is truly a feat
that us below should understand.
Then we should dance above with clasped hands
and rally as the sun moves dawn.
If we could fly then I’d chase the sun
and with a rope, grab it and run
until I brought the morning back in full dawn.




You untie your hair.  You recline on the
waterbed, listening to the waves turn beneath.
The fan silently blurs the ceiling.  Your
lamp shoots a pale, drowning fog of light
across the walls, spilling on the bed and
igniting shadows under your feet.  The day has
passed like a breath of chill, suddenly there
and then gone, leaving bumps.  Outside the basement
window, the night sounds no cry.  The black of sky
is unwavering, the stars are stone gods and the
moon is a silver hole into the heavens.  How
many more days shall pass in the fragment of
a whisper?  None, save the glorified rule over




When I dream tonight, I hope of my silver
clouds, my rolling green and my fantastic gale.
Tonight I pray to dream the scent of
forgotten cities, to dream the scope of space,
to dream the hush of the giant forest.  To walk
among the golden-shadowed green knolls.  To
look above and watch the shadow of a sky-city
pass by like a cloud.  To hear the silence after
a laugh from a little girl and the skitter
of feet upon the plain.  To feel the brush of
heat as the sun comes to rest in axis on
the tip of morning.  To touch a red rose and
gaze in love as it blossoms into a beautiful
gazelle and gallops into the horizon, this I pray to dream…





Morning in the suburbs, light creeps over perfectly
laid streets.  Tress shiver in whisper, “We are the
prettiest of them all.”  Brick dollhouses and
tiny figurines asleep on freshly pressed
silk.  The muse in the driveway, glittering like
a washed knife.  Outside your bedroom door
you hear the purr of the savage.  But piled boxes
like cigar stumps and a half-concealed mirror
shake you.  The blue and white walls, the wreath
wallpaper, the copy of Mark Strand’s Blizzard of
One lying beneath the sheet of your mahogany
waterbed, the Accord and Pontiac outside your basement
window shining sunspots, the hush of the neighborhood,
the fan singing a song of air, and the trickle of dreams into reality.




Shakespeare’s sonnets are before you.  Upon one
page watching from floor to ceiling, upon your wall.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.
From fairest winters should the face thou spend,
these hours let not the gracious light to hear.
For fear, for shame thou shalt do count your self,
not from when I do not believe a summer’s day?
Devouring Time a woman’s face is not
my glass unperfect hath played their stars.
Disjointed, dismembered, words like the scattered voice
of the Bard himself, his forehead like sandpaper,
his frown like he begged on the streets for a pound.
His mind — I do not know his mind — and his verse
are his remnants of life.  For everything passes into the leaflet of Time.




When shall arise in nightly bliss
the hero of our coming hour?
His feet shall be like giant hands,
his eyes too blind to fetch the sand.
His hair shall be a part of earth,
his mind a spirit tossed to birth.
To save us from our mindless rite
we follow in our heedless plight.
His logic is that we shall stare
into the eyes of the great bear,
and we shall turn in winsome fright
and travel back our lonesome hike.
But if our hero is ignored
then who shall save us from our sore?




Shivering, I looked inside.  A storm bright as the sun,
accompanied by applause.  A castle built from frozen tears
pulsed lightning breath.  A young man dressed in nothing
but the harp in his right hand, sang woefully of the
sky.  The mighty stallion whimpered behind him, his mane a glorious
golden fire.  Flowers sprouted beneath his feet, small collections
of yellow and purple flowers.  The man cried; as his tears fell, bricks
formed.  His harp shook with the song he now played.  The song of
the forgotten wind, shattering silence between thunder and tears.
He sang of the wonders of the earth, the beauty of the human
soul.  He sang of the simplicity of a seed and the glory
of a bloomed tree.  He sang of love — eternal love — towards all
things, whether they are the lightning or the harp.  Both are beautiful
sounds. Then he laid down his harp, lifted his arms and turned to dust.




The opposites in this world stunt us in direction,
run through us like bulls and push us to the beyond
beneath the cataclysmic sky and torrid rains.
Think not of solidarity, for in the maintained is
the wrath of your companions, upon the shrine of
dreams.  You are the whispering of a madman, unknown to
his own mind yet alive in the circle of sand that
stretches across the island.  You are adrift and lost,
flying tears and flinging silence like a raging starfish.
Waxen swims down the laughs, and yellow speaks
of blue rivers under moonlit nights.  Figure temperance
of my love, and you will understand why the solemn
beat of invisible light is upon the shore, why the distinct
shadows blur, and why the waves recede as they roll forward.





For me no beauty reaches back.  My
history is filled with silence and the
enveloping embrace of a mother.  When I woke
in mornings, light cloaked me.  While all else
was shadow, the wooden and plastic cabinets on the
far wall, the photograph of Hawaii, the television,
the door, all cloaked in shadow but me in light.  I woke
to my mothers voice, or to the gentle rustle of leaves
outside my window.  As I climbed from my bed the
unmistakable pang of eternity slapped me across
my face.  I did not know then, but gently like my
mothers hands, the light infused within me love and
the tree outside protected me from evil.  The leaves,
like crescent gems, glittered in the morning sun, and in a daze, I slept.




Doves with wings of steel, over brazen treetops.  The
shadow of two lost souls cloak a boiling lake, shores
like wood crumbs, drifted pylons fume
purple electricity like a midnight storm.  Across the
waters a city glows like a ghost: long, twisted
buildings teeth the sky, clouds foam the streets and
water shattered storefronts that hang halfway in creak.
Two men play chess in a cafe.  They sip coffee,
and in between moves type on laptops.  They wear
pressed, casual suits.  Two plates of donut crumbs
beside the chessboard.  The queen: twisted, gnarled,
potholed branches grope a massive trunk, and diamond-shaped
leaves rustle in the silence of their breath.  The other pieces
lay shattered on the board.  The two men do not notice.




With peace comes the wanting of war, the
wanting of that which is not ours, but someone
else.  We stagger over weed-washed hills, after
we dump the blood of our fathers into buckets
and bury them in the national cemetery.  We
pick the newly sprung roses and burn the petals,
and we do not know why.  We dig into the earth
of our father’s dying mound, hoping to find their
last words ring through our eyes.  We now have
schooling in the art of peace.
Under ivy hallways, between twisted thorns and
suffocating vines, we learn to make amends.  We want
the gold of the other, we want the love of another, we
want the happiness of a lover, we want.




Our manacles, translucent, untouchable, writhe
us to the surface of earth while Time lap dances
in weird darkness before us.  We grasp each other,
you and I, listen to Time wail like a devouring banshee
and pray for blue light.  Whales fly like angels and
monkeys walk in beautiful grace among the pillars of blue
light.  Beneath the chaos we call the air, fledglings are born
and die, raise wings and drop breath, sing and sound death’s cry.
When the blue light comes, there shall be a great shout.
Our eyes will flood salt, darkness will flee like a hurt dog,
the coils of weariness will shatter and whimper death
and we will summon wings.  Into the great beyond we
shall lift, the wind a playful faun.  Clouds will unsheathe
us into the higher space, into the pillars of blue light.




Two boys jump on stones in a creek.  Their
mother smiles, reaches to the youngest boy and holds
his hand as he yells out in fear.  He tilts
unceremoniously on a stone.  He steadies himself and grins.
He leaps to another rock, looks awkwardly at his brother,
and leaps again.  Wind sings softly through the trees, and the
afternoon sun creates a spectacle of light upon the creek.
Ghostly yellow light haunts the air and paints the tips of leaves.
Water tumbles over stone, water clear and pure.
The mother sits on a patch of grass.  Once in the lead but now
a few stones behind, the older brother follows the younger brother,
carefully prods each stone and rests his weight on
each stone.  However, the grueling process snaps.  The younger brother
is halfway to the end of the creek.  The older brother stops, and cheers for him.





“By the masquerade, we fly!”  They shout into the cold
wind, release bonds and slide into the tepid
scent of workers enigma.  Roaring of engines signals
surrender to Earth, and below their dance Earth splits
and hot ice gushes forth in a blazing stream of
beautiful frozen stars.  Forms rise from the clay earth,
grow hands, feet, chest, fingers, head.  Their eyes glow
like empty hallways of the unrighteous, clear
and dark, hollow and sacred.  They grab the dancers,
rip off masks and force them to watch
Earth spew her vengeance upon them.  All lies,
all irony, all hypocrisy shattered one moment
when Earth rises to take what is rightfully hers.
The sun glowers in anger.




The fate of language is among those who wield it.
Not among those who read it, not among those who
hear it, not among those who feel it, not among those
who sing it, not among those who dance it, not among
those who paint it, not among those who dream it, not
among those who speak it, not among those who craft
it, not among those who create it, not among those who
are language.  The fate of language is among those
who wield it, whom the muse floats beside and
whispers fancies; who hear the call among their hearts
and do not turn away, who grasp the pen in feverish
fear and do what is required, not because they sip the
sweetness of summer, but because the winter lay its cold,
shackled hands upon the soul, and refuses to let go.




The shores, bright and light
as a silver-shed feather
drift over the field of love.
Chattering, colored-like leaves
in a Fall, leap between reeds
like happy smiles, but then
the black frown crumbles the
earth, uproots sheaves and
rip roots like a robin
scarred, seethed, and spiked.
Rush the twelve rivers and
lift the fisherman.  Feed the
sea, and swallow the reflected




We dream in crystal domes and
watch the stars cry in glowing fire.
We recline our eyes to softness and
breathe the rose, but suffer
the thorn and rupture blood.  The
marble floor gleams shined crimson.
Like a twisted knife, the thorn
smiles, but does not; invisibly.
I am old, yet feel our scarred
hate.  The thorn sleeps in my throat.
A reminder.  When I drink, the remembrance
of our sin haunts.  The ghostly
reflection of the sweet rose
fingers the dark.




When hills collide, the Phoenix shall be born.
Sparkled fire among tattered thorns
float like grim specters, and you
in haven of whisper, muse on collision.
You stretch your arms and beckon beauty,
but the sweet mother of tears forsakes; draws into her veil.
You kneel, pray for lightning to split your mind,
but soft thunder forsakes; only rain clouds, like giant shadows.
You scream in silence: heaven-light, do not forsake!  Your
mouth remains sealed like a winter kiss, but
your soul cries bitter rivers and your anguish
sifts mountains.  In your womb, the air chills
from your breath, the hot walls melt to wax and
the heart pleads why.





Their beautiful star, the savior of their soul, sing in
mysterious fragrance beneath sleepy night.  They marvel
in burgeoned wonder, call to infinite space for clarity.
The absolute signature of darkness fades, and in their
hearts they rejoice.  They walk between halls of white light,
and for a mortal moment rise above their shadows.
In elapsed time, the sword sunders, and the shadows grow
writhing limbs; tears them to the earth.  As they
look at the shadows, they discover themselves foamed
and wild, hateful and deceptive.  They find the ruby
street and diamond moon, shimmering upon silent
waters.  They sleep on a prison mat, surrounded by
darkness: the guard clatters his hard rod on the bars.
The moon shifts in the window, and appear the halls of white light.





This is a poem about nothing.  The grind of the axle
of a car against hard, hot cement.  Spilt wine, soaked
within an ivory-woven carpet.  The clap of shoes as
a man races the sun, kicking a trail of desert sand.
Warbled screams flicker out a television.  Like a giant
eye, the fan runs in invisible circles.  You are unable
to grasp the moment.  Time falls away like grain
sucked down a bloated hose.  You sit up, raise
your head, and forget.  Only the concept of air is there:
floats before you, around you — your mind cracks to pieces,
and you stare forward at piles and piles of brown
storage boxes.  Towels and blankets drape the boxes, blue
and green sheets.  Your clothes are flung across the floor.
The run of the fan excites your heartbeat.  This is a poem: nothing.





Yesterday, the World Trade Center collapsed.  Two jetliners
cut the skyscrapers in half.  The twin towers bloomed like
two dust flowers and sank in defeat, trapping thousands of
innocent souls beneath their wretched thorns.  New York,
the next minute, was a sea of rubble and ash as the two
towers foamed the streets with shattered glass and
disintegrated stone.  In droves, people screamed through the
streets, flocking like wheat in a tornado.  The boiling gray
fumed through the streets, alive with terror and mystery.
People tripped beneath this strange creature, and stood, only
to find themselves in a different world.  The earth was caked
in shadow.  Buildings loomed like unseen eyes.  A strange
magic floated through the air, meaningless and clustered.
The sun disappeared.  Only the flame gave light.




We gather in one voice, clasp arms and shout
anger into heaven.  The sky is silent, save scattered
showers upon the land, soaked streets and
teary trees, mud banks and murky mountains.
Somewhere, deep in our heart, the tingle of something
greater rings its small bell.  The tinkle of rain,
drip of a faucet, rush of the Niagara,
whispers of the Nile, our silent agony behind
closed doors, the malicious blood streaked a mile high,
waves of our coast flushing driftwood, soaked and charred,
upon the paste and dirtied white sand.  Our appreciation
dooms from the wreath of the West to the ivy rose of the East,
and tiny white flowers burst into gigantic, seethed vines
as the sun rises to meet our gaze.




One corner to another — the Multiverse is the cable of sighs,
of laughter, the connection of power like the great surge
over the sky on haunted, ghostly nights when God snaps
a whip and lashes blue blood from our alien evolution.
We are netted and wrapped, packaged in beautiful, blank boxes.
We personalize, and publish.  Our net is filled with blood-red
salmon, midnight black bass holding bags of camouflage,
golden flounders sleeping over a bed of roses, green
sharks grinning with mouths of coins, sharpened hammerheads
firing AK’s at their shadows, and mutated shapes wriggled
together, coughing dust and scratching their nets in fear.  We
are bundled together, as one, in this new and frightening
world.  Our eyes watch the devastation and brilliance of hope rise,
and our hearts feel the tumble of nations.  We are strong.





Sleep overwhelms the minister of woe, wicked
and cunning, lying uncalculated and forever dark.
The gray banister, the black mouse on Paris’ finger,
the knot of dark sighs and the blood on the invisible knife.
You raise the right and sail the True Way, but the seas
toss you in the depths.  A ravaged hate spurs hands
into radical inevitability, the moon turns and clouds
vanish.  Two dancers are shot and bleed to death, in matrimonal
pain.  A homeless man, crucified upon a crane, moans
his last breath to a never-achieved love.  The fiery wall
between laughter and hate is forgotten and you step
through the barrier unaware there ever was a distinction.
The pure of life is a rain-soaked countryside, desperate
to fling off mud and dry beside a warn, crackling fire.




My personal opinion, does not matter.  Culture, like a
savage creature, searches for food.  Through the
dense forest, hackles are raised at misplaced sunlight and
a growl rustles when wind carries a scent.  Personally, I hunt
culture.  I creep among brambles and wait until she
steps into a shaft of moonlight.  But I am young, and culture,
ancient.  She senses me, and as my gun becomes a thunderclap
she leaps away.  I scatter a few leaves to the earth.
I swear to myself, next time, next time.  But she always changes,
from the bright-eyed eagle, to the prowling tiger, the
brilliant hare and the mooring sloth.  The colorful butterfly
and the dancing hyena.  The fickle monkey and the
mysterious lemur.  The winsome manx and the grafted wyvern.
She even becomes me.




The morning air, the rapping cry of a nameless
bird, the stillness of leaves and blue moon,
a light disc of fire, to vanish as sun rises.
The gentle silence, flocked in a sliver of time
between morning and night when neither the sun
nor moon gazes, nor the stars glaze the sky,
but the living rustle the ocean of life in quiet storm.
When flowers, with moon-washed heads, hear the morning
sun and grasses laugh as the wind tickles their bosoms.
The nameless bird breaches the gap in a magical
ceremony of dawn, and as the song is finished,
modern life rolls from under her rock and roars.
The hint of something more beneath a climbing sky
fades, replaced by something less, more tangible.




There is a silence we do not accept.  When the television
is off, before we move, when we wake, after
broken forcefully from a dream, when a tear is shed,
between sobs, when a musician ends a solo,
when someone dies.  Why must we fill the silence?
Look closer: it is not the pale consideration of fear,
but raptured joy.  The energy of a thousand fires
burn like steadfast summer sparks, but when
the silence is shattered: snuffed and closed in smoke.
The ancient faces call forward for the remembrance
of silence, so they may be understood.  This is a
good silence, penetrated by the fingers of soul-fire
and wrung by a spirit-walk.  The beauty of a moment
can be realized, if only we grasp it.




You say: “My mind is a blur.”  I reply:
“What is a blur?”  And the great voice answers
like some giant tree rooted in the sun.
“A blur is the inconstant suffering.  When
you hear whispers, and convince yourself that your
subconscious understood, but your conscious
mind flew by like ignorant dust; when
in tears, you watch your beloved depart and unfulfilled
anger surges forth; when you run through green-washed
parks on a cold, winter morn, to release anguish
of departured hope; when you lay in bed and stare
towards God, only to find a ceiling; when the
winsome ways of troubled fays, deeply and dark, hunt
you in corners, and force your fears to become whispers of light.”





Nature reigns.  She is eternal, born with time,
and fated to die when time shudders in death.  Nature
is our essence, our flight to perfection.  All lies in
nature: the cosmic winds, the hands of God, the weight
of the world, the tyranny of the soul.  Nature is
our golden muse, who from our birth as creatures of
dust until our arrival as beings of light, is our mother
and heaven-constant.  In her grove of trees, her falling
water, her constant rebirth – through the ages the poets
have sung of this.  Today, in our sheltered existence,
a peace flows like none other: as we open the window
of our soul to her sweet music, hear the battle of the
stars and the chatter of life, witness the rebirth of
the sun and the folding hands of God’s high mount.




The modern, candid response is the same
as the ancient, druidic love passed behind
humanity.  The constants that ruled them
are the constants that rule now.  We look in
the lake, discover our reflection, and believe
it is someone else.  The gap in our hearts
has not widened, nor shortened.  We still worship
what we cannot see.  Our goals are the same.
When we drive our cars beyond breath into the
realm of some nightmare, they too, have seen
the black tar.  When they join hands, chant
and call mysterious spirits from the trees,
it is our laser-light show dancing over the ripple of a lake.
Our discovery is their end.




Where have the cats gone?  To feed on dying mountain
streams, and run over crags riddled in smoke.
Meanwhile, our busy lives develop, grow, and
breathe – a hulking, crying monster, who falls
into the earth and flies between the clouds.  We
welcome the summer rain, and shun the winter sun.
We forge the silence of our dreams, with the cacophony
of a million, displaced souls, in the place where
things collide and become one.  Where are one body,
confused at our reflection.  Our arm tries to
saw off our leg, while our hands scream
obscenities at our neck.  We run through long,
dark hallways, naked and sweaty.  Every
twisted shadow mocks us.  The Hegemon is not complete.




We dance all night, and dance all day
the rhythm of our dusty souls.
Our bodies whirl in wicked ways,
our smiles flash like melted roars.
Dreams of the wayside, tumbled soil
are birthed in our youthful heat.
The mellow wind our hard toil soothes
on steel, raw beams in shadowy breach.
We raise upon the mountained-earth
and sculpt the beauty of our dreams.
The slivered silver breaks the mirth
and renovates our strengthened teams
of boundful leaps and pure, raw love
upon the dance floor and above.




Tomorrow’s dream has faded from their faces.
They stand in wait for death to come and gauge
the weight of crime upon their heavy fate.
Who is death, to come and choose the wrong
and right?  He is only the master of night.
His fangs drip sunlight, flowers torn by wind,
hewn and tattered, frozen limbs.  The light
of golden lantern’s fire, you hold beside your chin
to study his awkward whims.  Their faces
are dark and split with earth.  Their hands are rough,
working hands.  Day and night to tend the earth
in gentle grasp, but now their hearts have grown
too old for sighs, too old for laughs, and must
die.  To heaven with their soulful song, to sing their dream.





Even the mightiest shall die of grass-
like blades, under a storm of raptured fate.
Lightning shall sink the tallest tree in wrath
because she rose into the clouds to rake
the very presence of God’s cosmic weight.
In many plumes of fire she shall erode
like beauty’s dream among death’s field of hate.
Her ashes spread to famished, welcomed homes
where sleeping eyes, abandoned, now spring life
in eager, treasured gaze, like some odd flight
of ravens perched among a tree of strife
and bones, ripened and like the lilac’s bite.
The smoke shall rise, in whispered darkened hue
into the sky, and filter mind anew.