Cloud of Mercy


Art courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/her-eye-wanders-511915830

11

The heart is burning with separation
What can cure it?
God, divine love, unity

The mind is weary of anonymity
In an uncaring world
What can cure it?
God, divine love, unity

The day of judgement is upon thee
Who can face it?
Your soul with god, divine love, unity
So the soul becomes the loyal friend

After personality has
Faded away and time has given up
Poetry remembers all of this

And that is why we write
The Beloved is an empathy
As wide as the universe

Suffering brings us close to the goal
So do not recoil from it
What can save you?

God, divine love, unity
Like a lost bliss in creation itself
Or a high smile evolution’s brilliance

What can cure the choices we make…
You know already the spiritual condition.

Jami’s Last Words


10

What is poetry? The heart standing
Still, in the promised land

The song of the bird
Of the spirit-mind

The simplicity of the world of
Eternity, where light echoes
From word to golden word
And we are not won yet?

Our body forgets beauty?
Our love grows faint yet?
What is poetry? The soul mirroring
The love of more innocent hearts

The youth of the Divine rose garden
That outlasts all suffering, separation
It draws its faith and power
From a unity with the sacred

What is poetry? It’s the voice
Of god speaking from our heart
In feeling-words, shadows of

Left-over tears from the hardships
Every being must live through.

Singing the Way


9

I deviated from language
And I ended up in poetry
I deviated from silence
And every valley became fertile

I deviated from words
And the sun spoke through
The Earth in me until
My thoughts became like prophecies

I cast out all dogmas, idols, prophets
Until I could relate to nature
Without the layers of man
Then poetry became a wild incantation

Of trees and planets and stars
Then the inner reality of the cosmos
Spoke to me like a sunset speaks
To the eyes of seeing creatures

I deviated from speaking
But structures of meaning still
Built castles in my mind
That is why I was born

So that I might retrace my steps
Not as a seer but as a singing way
The trance that never ended
Until I became as transparent
As the inner meaning of the Tao.

Who Killed Poetry


8

Who killed poetry?
Did your grandmother write
The last one in your bloodline?

Did it fall away with the fad of music?
Did it not shine enough in those
Pesky dark anthologies
Hidden in your school’s library?

Or did it get less valuable
Force fed in bad English classes
Where poetry seemed a dead thing

Some structure of how it works
That had no life or beauty
Who killed poetry?
Did you ever think of it as

A lost art you were re-creating?
That might have been closer
To the truth, your truth

That’s the lifeblood of things
It must have fled mainstream minds
The moment philosophy died
For the philosophers were closet poets

Alchemists searching for higher answers
Occultists of nature searching
For a deeper communion with simplicity.

Poetry of the Human Psyche


7

What is this poetry, you keep talking about
This poetry, you keep becoming
Like a neurological stimulation
You can’t give up!?

An imported art for the few
From some peculiar time
When people read and spoke of

Their innermost feelings
Is poetry to be felt as something
Fundamental, then, or a shape produced

Or a fictional narrative
Or a sculpture of nature reproducing
Something or copying something other
An architecture of the human condition?

A caricature then, a blank slate that is
Never truly neutral or objective at all?
Or a failure to integrate into reality?

Some verbal instrument of our subjectivity
A popular language of futility
Like philosophy, or something to be hidden
By teenagers on secret blogs

All appearances do seem fallacious
And we disdain to be ourselves classified
As the formerly neurotic, or spontaneously flawed

But who cares, we trace our own definitions
Right down to the words we choose to affirm
However our psyche breathes, however
Our art can account for our genes

In these environments, this snapshot of history
These ruined cities and corrupted nations
So poetry is not meant to convince or persuade

But to reveal, offering a sense of
The human to the intelligence machine
And offering a sense of the past to the future
A passion of the elementary kind

We wrote our best poems when young
Considered poetry, it’s an elegance of interpretation
Which takes greatest delight in hearing

Our own voice, like a vanity of our griefs
That’s the state of society, measured
In linguistic trends and masquerading as art.

In the Meaning of Words


6

In the sight sound touch taste smell of a poem
I can feel the power of history
The gap of lyrics in the years

A synaesthesia of what we should have known
All along, the cinnamon hope
Of the lost sonnet sequences

Of a Petrarchan burden of
The Shakespearean touch
But I’m not here for stanzas or sestinas
I’m a floating unread Haiku in time

I’m a limerick without humour
Catching fire, I’m a ballade
Of too much emotional to encompass

And the truth is, I’m an epitaph
Read out loud to myself for myself
And maybe, that’s all I ever was
An epigram of blank verse

A muse on an imaginary stage
A symbol, a pun, a simile ready
To be personified like an oxymoron

A denotation of myself, contrasting
The sufficient irony of allegory
That’s it, that’s all, goodbye.