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.