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.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Pure-438986417