One Last Chance

I’ve buried with open eyes
My heart in the world
To see nothing really
And to see love clearly

I’ve deserted language
For feeling, it’s the only
Truth that matters to me
The foliage of clear identity

The fallen reality of empathy
I’ve buried with open eyes
My heart in the world
So that my soul might

Not go extinct, it’s light weight
Pressed against the winter morning
Like an anonymous conspiracy
Of seeing beauty even in decay

And the pulse of syllables
Laughing even in monotony
I’ve burned with open eyes
My heart in the world

So that i might sleepwalk kindly
For the rest of my brief years
If only to love a bit more
And learn to think of myself

A bit less, so far as I know
It’s working, goodbye then
Charred language, scattered vows
Promises of desires better left

For the precipitation of music
The arpeggio of sighs.

Dead Poets’ Legacy

I’ve been stalked by God and Suns
Haunted by wild furies and ghosts
Loved by nature’s shyest beasts
Adored by words slick in subjectivity

I’ve drunk the magic of life
In all her deep-velvet verities
And the fabulous beauty of even
Despair, and the psychic knot of tragedy

I’ve been visited by calamity
Survived through bankrupt bed-ridden
Poverty, seen the ceremony of
Heart-break unfold in slow scrutiny

I’ve loved those conversations
Among the ruins, as if that was also
Part of my destiny, but as a Buddhist
I’ve taken it all in stride, and in a whirlwind

Of havoc and the empathy that comes
After significant suffering, I can only say
I carry with me the legacy of poets
I’ve read carefully those who committed suicide

I’ve felt their prominent warped humanity
And learned from their last grip on romance
I’ve been stalked by Metaphysics and Death
A tentative existentialism sweet as

Writing poems on napkins, when nothing else
Is available, I gave heavenward and married
Art it seemed, when all friends and lovers left me
Poetry is what I fed upon, to survive

How shall I tell you the story then?
Of how my retrograde stars nudged me?
Or how the mild light enfolds as I stooped
A lonely guest in this anonymous world?

After Journaling

There is no burnt paper anymore
My age of confessions is over
I have nothing to hide from myself
My journals are just filled

With spiritual musings
The drama has gone
And angst is dead
No saxophone haunting

From my bedroom
No squalor beneath my
Guitar-fingers, only
The meditation of poems

The slapping phantom of laundry
An old apartment, beaten up
While my screen paints silversmithing
Of this unusual alchemy

The beating of blackberry wisdom
Into ripe aphorisms, it’s enough
For procrastination and myth
We all have to cross those waters

One day, astounded souls
Leaving games of chess and flirting behind
And filter flowers for golden messages
And live in a quiet place in Canada

Where the stars are not so cold
And all dark advice of shame is gone
Open to the wilderness, ready
To learn how to be free.

Hibiscus Serenity

i

I have no worry, I have no words
No smiles, only equanimity
The peace that comes from

So much feeling, in too little time
Look right, look up, look inside
A lift mine heart, but all that is left
Is pure empathy, for lives
Not my own, I have been saved

ii

By falling leaves, and turning time
And friends along the way
That the sacred grounds

Have been growing gardens
In my spirit’s recess and ambiguity
A stasis of light, and a warmth
Of another color a bit like pink
I have no worries, I have no words

iii

No preferences, only detachment
And the calm of hope, after poverty
Foam to wheat, dread to placid mirth

I have melted like the dew on the grass
And all that’s left is the cauldron
Of morning, beautiful fairy-tale morning
And alphabets floating in my mind.

Art Courtesy: https://www.facebook.com/agnescecile

After a Thousand Poets

To dream myself, to be dreampt
By other eyes, on other worlds
That was the prophecy of
The written word, to be fluid

Like a medium, to pastel the words
Into new forms, to climb
The towers together of meaning
And visit the citadels of angels

To explore rooms, walk streets
Of singing combinations never
Before experienced, like surrealism
In a bright sunlit room, and art

With trends and sublime gulfs
Where only a few artists can reach
And cities of culture’s inheritance
Where philosophers must tread

To dream myself, being more
Than just idle dreams, to weave
Looking out into new enchanted sentences
That come alive in their own way

That can speak to sense and soul
Moulding kaleidoscopic clouds
As easy as the fountains of day
And water of enormous glimpses

Of prosperity, the light of the future
Golden mornings, youth transformed
Some transparent shimmer
Of alphabets that can suffice the
Difficult diamond thirst.

Cyberflowing

I am a translucent verb
In love with nouns
Escaping out of events

Frustrated by the mirth of time
I am not an object, only a person
By breeding and heritage
In ideas I am water
So my writing

Becomes a part of the Tao
Like ink in water
I write cursive and mandarin glyphs

Sailing into the eyes
Of rainbows and storms
I live in literature like
The secret power of a sage
Waiting to be reborn

My temptations are
Celebrating the end
The ends are always

Silent and unbending
As if the source of my strength
Is proliferation of invisible symbols

Guilty of being stuck in semantics
In love with nouns and suffixes
The vocabulary of my spirit
Is technocratic and simulative.

After a lifetime of waiting

When the water we drank
In the nights, was
All the wine in the world

Together, we wanted it that way
In our entrance of the prime
Of our lives, the wedding ring
Ripe fruit, sleeplessness of teamwork
Good and fortune, round time

Forever like love melted
In the courtesy of lost years
Just as it was, just as it always

Should have been, when the love
Was given, it was to each other
Like a love poem composed
In a far off foreign country
Incorporating elements of that culture

We lie in the grass life isn’t forever
Is love a serious matter?
I still cannot say, like the

Dream of years of good living
It came so fast, after
What seemed like
A lifetime of waiting.

Sea People

Our love was not other than this
It did not, not break on the shores
Like the waves of oceans
Across from which we came

You were native and I was immigrant
Or was I foreigner and you were
Oriental? A lowered eyelid of heart
Far in the distance, coming closer

Like a strange shell of our souls
Meeting, side by side, we tried
To explain it, but it was what it was
That higher instinct to flight

Love is a flight from reality
If we’d close our eyes
We might have missed it
The breath that mingles with years

And the solace that comes
From deep loyalty and ultimate
Belonging, it’s the shore alight
After a thousand empty voyages

Our love was not other than this
The body of a flower born to bloom
On a lonely branch, requiring timing
Nature did that to us, she let us go

Against the musical rhythm
Of our fate where we met
Changing our lives forever.

I am the circumstance

My hands? They are
On the lips of the wind
My eyes? They are
With the gorgeous sun
That knows no sets or rise

Only the love shared
From the perspective of a centre
My heart? It’s born every day
New, like silver clouds
Dispersing over here or there

What am I? I am not this
Not that, not actually a self
I am the minds of all free beings
My lungs? They inhale morning
And nightfall, with the weight

Of birds and flight and credible
Dreaming, in this architecture
Of sound, what is life?
It’s the music that invented movement
Between footsteps of evolution

My love? It’s the seasons that
Never dies, only renews
What more could I say?

Art Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Rainbow-visionary-327741060

Visionary Moment

We were enclosed by
Synchronicity, an hour
Of tremendous divinity

And I forgot myself there
As if forever, as if I never existed
And it was luminous

I existed there without self
We were as if an entire plant
The universe was an organism

And light left us blessedness
In all directions, like fish
In a nourishing sea

And my petals were parts of you
And your scent was a part of me
And I was wholly consumed

In grace, with cheeks of the sun
Pale as a transparent bud
My heart was divine light

Where I did not seek to understand
But lost myself in beloved infinite identity
And to you, I had only tenderness.

Art Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Visionary-art-339818579

Paradox of Thought

I aspire to silence the voices
That I may speak for all voices
The function of a room is
To keep the body well

The function of a mind is
To keep the soul serene
I will never hear the one true voice
But in the Tao I find ultimate empathy

And I give it to all creatures here
And in silence I feel the snowflakes
The clouds, the trees, the light
In a whole new way against

The night, alive in the day
I become like the breeze
That rustles the leaves
And by disappearing to myself

I have room to identify with everything
That is the function of silence
My friend, we’ve thought of how
The poet spoke the thoughts

Of history, well as a finger points
To the stars, the mind dreams
In silence, language finds God.

Nature 520:1

For I know the plans I have for you
Said Nature, to the beast
On whatever star, of artificial or organic
Intelligence, your design is place

Where energies collide
Plans to prosper and plans not
To harm you, and your descendants
Will be good and just

Plans to give you hope and a future
Taste and see that Nature is good
Blessed are those who follow her laws
And those who hope in the stars

Will renew their strength and soar
Like miracles from their Earths
They will walk on strange worlds
And not faint, for they will be

Custodians of life, protecting, nurturing
As was their true purpose, as they
Once were by me, Said Nature
As the home star burst forth, a red nothing.

The Group

There is strength in vulnerability
To feel more, is to be rich
It’s an abundance of the inner world
Who cares for possessions?

I wasn’t born to be a profiteer
I’d rather be like the water
Touching here, touching there
Pliant to the relationship of relationships

Aware of how the unity shapes
The whole, of how the particulars
Transfer their energy, it’s morbid
To think of ourselves as isolated selves

It’s dehumanizing to go to war every day
In the marketplace, to the office
There’s a function in serving a group
To feel more, connected and belong

To an entity that is clasped on many sides
By the shared vulnerability of each one.

We Write

To write is not to presume creativity
To write is not to add something
But to take away, to cleanse
To dispense with the enormous

Personalization which is an error
Of an unnetworked brain
Men commit monstrous acts
In the hopes of becoming great

But to write is the most human act
Since language is our Tao and birthright
To live in harmony as an author
Means to write from the perfect

Symmetry of your soul, since
That is instinctive, move with its
Effortless flow, understanding is not

Righteous, it’s a perspective of dominance
Humility requires to let go of intellectual ego
And to empathize on a more fundamental level.