The Crown of Literature is Poetry

It’s the end, and we’re all set
To become stories, information
Some live the poetry they cannot write
While I write the poetry I cannot live
As a slave to the poverty
And the empathy that comes from

Knowing the downtrodden
Poetry is a fire that lives inside of you
Like an artistic expression of faith
Beginning in delight and ending in wisdom
Pleasure never has so much truth as this

I’ll open all the doors, I’ll review
All the possibilities, and there will still
Be more to write, that’s the universe
Swimming in our minds, that’s a jewel
Of the cosmos, stationed in our hearts

And you won’t find poetry anywhere
Outside yourself, unless you
Bring a bit of your soul
The secret inspiration of the stars.

Eulogy to Poetry

Eulogy to Poetry

Think in the morning
And poetry has died
What would you say to her?
First language and eldest daughter
I saw you in grains of sand

Your love trapped in wild flowers
I set the seas to your lips
And burned a thousand dreams
In your skies of velvet pink
I knew you as infinity of evolution

Guiding me to future hours
The trees cried flowers because of you
And the sun made songs of her Spring
You never know love of language
Until language is gone, like Sanskrit

An exuberance of many ways
To the say the same dear familiar things
Which to another generation, might be unknown
That’s poetry, a rare bird going extinct
That’s poetry, a strange magic being replaced

That’s poetry, the kind of book not published
That’s poetry, the kind of soul that can’t be bought.

Like Aristotle’s Memory

I go in search of wonder
By doing so I find it everywhere
In the savour of breath
And in the flow of blood
Biology is an antique song

Who showed you the path
Of the poets?
The heart of silk
And the pen of light?
You leave us singing

In the little square
With lost bells
The lilies and the bees
Are gone, but wonder
It’s rippled like a legend

Everywhere, enormous
Pupils of gigantic glee
Injured somewhere in the wind
Farther than the seas
Intimate as every star

And I wonder, why is
Beauty and truth sprinkled
Like leaves in the galaxies
Did Aristotle look upon
Purple plains and wonder?

It’s a broken harmony
In the mind, in the protests
Of silence, in moments
Shrouded by desire
And the frozen sleepy pause

Of cities gone to sleep
Very bitter is the wonder
Of change and time’s labyrinth
I need search no longer then
Rocking the dawn
It’s found me here.