Sleeping on the wings of poetry


15

I’ve satisfied the poetry in me
by mastering luminous humility
I can chew personal poems in
the meditation against coercion

it’s a lifelong habit to read & write
though I’d prefer a mandarin certificate
than another restoration of crisis
through and by writing, soaring there –

I’ve satisfied the poetry in me
or so I always think, before and after
I wrote the last, till the penning of the next
veering upward like a pigeon with

an unworldly frown, I laugh to think
at how the car honks, door slams, angels cry
of a trillion worlds, while I can simply write
poetry is the last beautiful language
difficult though it has always been to me.

poetry courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Scintillate-402634741

To have lavender lips under the leaves of the world


11

In poems anything can be said
eyelids don’t obey the night
hearts might float as silver flying machines

throats might have a spiritual flicker
in poems anything might fly
slow heart breaths to music’s touch

lavender creeps in through the bedroom window
and fragrance tell us a bed-time story
In poems dreams collide, with the ocean’s floor

with stars that spring loud as the streaming sun
treasures could last for centuries
on eager notes of autumn amusement

In poems anything can zealously work
for the beacon of the times had a candle
that said to each morning how much I loved you

with a mouth for cranberry tea and the bluest glow
In poems I miss you always
for even careful words are too numerous
To be taken seriously.

Of Post Modern Poetry


13

The poem of the mind begins
from imitation, the sufficient finding
of ourselves in others, of language in mind

the poetry of the heart begins
from adoration, the theater of possession
when all the scripts repeat

the scenes shift with insatiable actors
I slowly construct my new stage
the poem begins with delicate listening

a repetition of silence between each vowel
with an invisible audience that cares
the poem of the mind beings after modern poetry

ended with a souvenir of free-verse
when everyone became a sufficient poet
confessing to learn the speech of themselves

now I will never know exactly how to write myself
though it is fun to make metaphysics my business
and in sudden righteousness, pretend I’m more than a spark.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-402575231

Buddhist Untitled Engima


31

Look, look, look – far ends to tired days
That all days were tiring and half-endured
I recommend this abstinence from pain

A praise of purity, in expressions
Of the most lucid meditation
Look, look, look – at the flavor

Of all the Beloved guests, which banquet
With spice & wine, through time
Till my small Library of experience

Is full, full, full – far ends to newer days
That required a wilderness of eyes
And holidays of the happy heart

To stay awake and keep on living
Though at times there were no kinsmen dear
To satisfy the spirit, or obtain peace

I recommend this abstinence from attachment
A praise of purity, in expression
Of the most transparent meditation

Done with all compasses of hope and art
When thinking is shed for rapture & silence.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-magic-ballet-402542745