Let your burdens, and our blind mischances
Rest, this is the luckiest to know
That we are not unique, the kindest truth
And that our souls may freely come and go

We must at least renounce breath
And the musky annointment of tired lungs
The certain tang in an off-beaten heart
The weary weight of years in bones

It is not for us to say, what were the fruit
Of blooming wisdom or peace that stepping back
To loving simplicity, the omens of
What comes next, that we have not always

The time to say goodbye, because we live
By instinct, and follow particular bearings
From the source, no backward glances then
No ceremony, for irregular events that fit together

In the story of our time, whose full dimensions
Remain unknown, or without prescident.



On the Egyptian papyrus
I read the star-chart of the future
There are no credits in fate

No discretion in life-experience
As if life were a mere accident
In some ghost-continuum of

Many possible futures, variables
Of natural algorithms of what
Was meant to be, after all –

Beneath Spring light as lovely
As candles in the Earth’s own womb
I felt the racing of embryos

Life, love and the plummet of years
Priceless as the attendants of lost hours
I sought to unloose the perfect

Formula of being, but there was none
No happiness that led to lasting joy
Except for the strange spiritual instinct.

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When the great poem of winter fades
Everything again becomes possible
Spring thrives beyond ice, lifting the Rose
The Heart becomes an Impossible Aberration

We are all insatiable actors
With many seasons as our Acts
To plant a new garden, with the meditation
Of a Natural impetus, Script of Spring

Where Love is reinvented
The poem of relationship with the
Touch of moonlight, country of the Soul
When the great poem of winter ends

Women invisible in music and color
Come alive, like the last orchestra
Like an alien landscape of a future
Where a primitive uncreated night

Still projects an immutable physics
A truth beyond all truths, billions of years old.

P.S. Warm welcome to anyone who wants to enter a poetry contest on



The Soul selects her own Society
A county of Faith, path to Ideas
And Friends that point to her

Divine majority, that include
The chief work of our Fate, if any:
The unmoved low gate-river

Of how we made the World
A better more beautiful place
Life’s opportunities do not always

Escape the circumference of our birth
But sometimes an alien Will
Gives our spirit ideal conditions

To do what we were meant to do
Our bit of Bliss before we forget the light
Those dawns and sunsets that

Stamped our brow, the soul meanwhile
Lives on, in the sweet curve of years
And desires wonderfully renounced!



The Prologues are over, they are done
The questioning is a fiction of not accepting
A Life we are given, choices in a fiction
An ultimate Elegance in an imaged land

Surreal are the chapters that made up
Our stages of experience, our stories
Of belief, we were islands of voices
Each playing out our internal narrative

From the inside-out, like a diamond pattern
Of the algorithms of fate, it wasn’t a rumor
It was the feeling of being burried in Jasmine flowers
The weight of walking over newly fallen snow

We lived without external reference
Hoping to reinvent ourselves in some design
But the Sea is so many written words
With vowels that all sound the same

Made of white foam and water molecules
With a rosy-golden rain of the same waves of Light.



Death is the pure potential
Of a life to be more, to go Beyond
Anyone, still we meet God

Though if God be but not Immortal
But a cultural refuge, this must be
An instrument for our Creation

The longest enduring Friend
To hope, with faith, for a Future
That might evolve from our Pursuit

Itself, everyone, to be dissolved in God
The Galaxy that remembers
Ancients, inheritance, ancestors extinct –

Death is the pure potential
Glowing in the metaphors that endure
And Everything that happens
Should be perceived as a Miracle.



Berries are sure to redden on
The body of whiteness, entry of Spring
White shadows will collide
Drunk with the juice of Moonlight

Life will explode from the bony Mother
Earth will weep rivers, fountains, lakes
Birds will build fortresses
Time will drag a harmony of balanced ruling

Promising a silence as deep as the source
Buds will drift up the Great goddess stems
Flowers will steer countries to sunsets
Blue water-mists will flash by naked

Startling fishermen, colors will
Taint the margins of everything old
Owls give way to Peacocks
Midnights to quivering fields

Berries are sure to redden
On the fertile mounts of Spring.



Low tide, flat water, sultry sun,
How I wish I could adore
Human beings, as I do the Earth

In her millimeter’s measures
The grasp of days on wings of transparency
The dauntless leaping of the

Holy day to sunshine’s earlobes
Neat night, tucked ocean, blinding ray
Of morning upon my cheeks

How I wish I could find the truth
Of our species, in these yellow afternoons
Arormed with bronze, against our folly

But the love given to us by the Earth
It’s not an end, it’s just a beginning
Silence wraps silence, and answers
Run mute to a future that is divergent.

Birds of Earth


I listened to the birds
And they spoke to me with counting breaths
With a beat of wings and color’s snare

I felt them disband
Into the caravan of night
I was a part of this
And they, were a part of me

Morning of the birds
And a county of the Spring
Their songs still sing in me

Like ancient figures of speech
Feathers of Earth, dream of eyes
Everything in history is part of us.



Those who have been without the longest
Thou who have Craved the Most!
Those that know their lives begin Today

Equally to perish in the wishes
Of the present’s Practice
Death to ourselves is a White Exploit

That even Cherished Goals fade
The annuls of the years transform
With symbols of fixed Delight

Retrospection, doubt, anticipation
Those who once knew Themselves
Must start again, as Achieving
Is a Latitude, with no Umpire Sovereign.



I was burned in the Night
Awoke to my own blister of Dream
Awaiting Dawn, I heard the voice
With every Morning’s Beam

I felt the lids of Memory break
Like an open Seal of all that
Can ever be Experienced
My Sense featured only Beloved images

Which I saw to my surprise everywhere
I was created Mystical in the Night
Distilled from Sunday Twilights
I Harvested from every Sun

A bit of madness in the Source
That was a Love no mind or soul
Might Contain, only envelope
For a very short interval.

Poetry that Dresses the Dew


O’ poet patting the nonsense foamed
From the Sea of courts, literature’s canvas
Always blank and cosmically black

A rugged conceit of divine academics
Of magic from the mortal’s mind
And variables from the moonlight’s rhetoric

O’ poet disclosing the spirit-champion
Music of alphabets, evading metaphors
That only glimmer once, and never again

Sporting their qualities, of the traceless stars
Tomorrow when the sun is ripe
To portray all of your images

O’ poet young, as Ancestors in new forms
When language distills a brush of white
Lucid as the idioms of forgotten heroes
Tragedies lost to the eyes of history

O’ poet, the poorest artist of them all
How the days pass like paperless bouquets
That are no longer fueled by tears
But by the neutral magic of fresh mornings
Blowing nights, the quaint wisdom of years.

A Canto of Being More than Birth or Death


I sang a Canto of country words
Of spirit mingling with identity
I stood and sang and filled the air
In a theater of my special muse –

Underneath pillars of sense & salt
I felt the invisible, intangible
Illuminable work through me
I sang a Canto to the stars

Of heart cleared clean north in heights
With the aspiration to be free
The sun appeared and reddened great
I sang a Canto of sunsets on the verge

Of time naked of politics and self
And my words become finally
A diamond pivot bright born
A luminous page on my knee

I sang a Canto virile in breath
That paused to trace infinity.



The bones of saints
Are prized above their flesh
The words of writers
Loved more after they are dead

Our parents and ancestors
Cherished, after we realize what
They did, God loved
More in the second half of life

Mystics studied, poetry haunted
Requim for the murdered yesterdays
So shall we retell history
Each filled by our own myths

Biased by one frame of reference
We have a finite number of thoughts
An algorithm that governs
The quality of our wisest acts.



There is a music more than a breath
That is passed down, like a poem
That someone endures the centuries

Sappho, Emily Dickinson or Aphra Behn
There are letters of rock and water
Cities dissolve as unconscious things

But the water rises, the histories drift
Off course upon extinction’s whims
There is art more precious than hope

That lives on, at the edges of faith
We labored for something forever young
The soul of the worlds, brightly-crowned
Time of their time, beauty of eternity.

Green is the Night


The Sunday baths and blueish clouds
Do not care for the sleight of hand
Of life’s irrevocable reversals

The rattled gold of her contorted change
The wheel survives the myths
And centuries outlive ignorance

We are little islands like
Geese sprinkled through the stars
We hunt for a pearlest spouse

In the wintry bronze of a lifetime
Hoping to attain a wedding of the soul
That might survive all suffering

Green is the night, pure mysticism
Where the topaz rabbit and emerald cat
Move to wake us from our petty dreams.



My life is a stanza of sitting outside
In the most unimaginably real Beauty
Sophisticated in happiness, remarkable
In needing little to love the Spring

My phrases are a bright like Blue birds
The surprise of Moonlight crumbled
Through the Mountain air, lofty
With the labor of thought, Dreaming

For a lifetime of grumbling prophecy
The sentient science of Language evolved
In the Trial and Error of a thousand poems
Naked in the innocence of words that strive

I hold my Ear to the Ocean’s fragrance
I inhale the invisible Music all around me
I walk through youth dressed like a poor man
For the Beloved to descend in my incapable Imagination.



In the tumbling of the divine musician
And the trample of the orators
There was a mystic poetry

The suave cosmic diamond-egg
Of song and meaning, language
That runs like the brightest streams

Down centuries where we have listening
In the overgrown forest of stanzas
And the battlefield of non-silence

There holds our attention, a voice
Mobs of wisdom heralded, a weak voice
Nearly mute, the voice of the soul

On a torn page of Aristotle’s metaphysics
Where genius had no visible shadow
And philosophy has no material counterpart.



I heard Scarlet whipsers
And Gold renotes, mere echoes
From the cocoon of inherited thought
Traces of ideas crystaline

Imagined by Bards of other times
I heard threads from Infinity
Sutras from Divine canvases
Queenly gestures from Butterflies

Mantras of silk, and flower-ink patterns
In a cadence of alien symbolism
I heard poetry in motion, somewhere
In the stream’s motion, felt

The tide of Beauty perennial
On my eyes, as I lay below the bluest skies
I heard the future in the sound
The lightest snow made as it

Touched my eye-lashes
Skimming whitest inches down.

As the Observer Wills


It will be heaven after death
For after death there is always life
The sound of music, lasting in the sun
Voices, in the night like colors

Stars hungry for rebirth
In a prelude to objects
With a womb for evolution’s
Academics of probability

Disclosed in common forms
We design our lives
With mirrors multiplied
Souls sweeping impossible elegance

The tragic sciences finally lead
To mysticism, that’s not by chance
It will be heaven after earth
For after Sol there are planets

Ideas exchanged and sentiments
Glimmering like a study of opposites
Nude pairs to fill all composed curves
Hanging in bits of blue, for
A future as the observer wills.

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Karma Arrives Like a Smile of God


Our acts are little buds Of prayer, aspirations at times Without dedication Our faith is a slow runner On time’s thin Dance of God Our deeds are bound Arriving shockingly late The karma is our satisfaction-distribution Of portions of Eternity … Continue reading

No Home like Femininity


Lying in bed I almost mistake Good health for youth Moonlight on the floor For memories of your skin Looking up I see the cold light For what it is, birthplace Source, cool strength Like your body that carried me … Continue reading