The Last Poets


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The Last Poets

Between the potency of existence
And the silence of the soul of love
The voices that speaks is poetry
To look at the world the way
A man looks at a woman
With hunger and a vivid appreciation
For nature’s prosperity

The voice knows me
Like the way a ghost knows its shadow
Time riots in the music of my dance
Every generation I shall lend the voice
And poets will become the lover
I once was, carrying on the tradition
Of making light of the hidden beautyScreen Shot 07-11-15 at 09.19 PM

Until you write so beautifully
The inside of your mind
Becomes a reflection of heaven
The heaven that belongs to the future
And the poetry of the Earth is never dead
I get a little poetic sometimes
When I realize we are perhaps

On the way to extinction, after all
We have become the alchemists
Of our own evolution, like the mother
Of communism, art can get lost
In translation, and even poetry can
Die, the literature of a more romantic age.

Price of Poems


10


Price of Poem-Making

They say art is the greatest escape
Into the right hemisphere
Some do not find their way out
From the dream, and poverty

I can relate, to how
Writing is a compulsion
With a high investment fee
It’s time spent in freedom, however

A necessary joy of thought
It’s contemplation
As a pioneer, one part philosopher
One part, entertaining

Poetry is not a recognized art form
It hides behind the scenes
It dribs and drabs and drags

On the alt circuit, mostly unseen

Literary journals are not read
By many people, though strangely
Poems summarize the human condition
Better than fads of music, trends of painting

Glories of architecture, marvels of dance
Better even than the twisted sense of novels
Those characters are all but forgotten
But poems never die

They float on the cosmos of the web
In archives of portals of the ancient internet
Where nobody goes anymore
In the future, poems are spoken not written.

Double dream of spring


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Double dream of spring

In march I had a double dream of spring
Like a painting infused in my waking moments
I felt an immense hope that

All the sacrifice of ancestors might come
To something in me, like
A new beginnings or so many phrases
That resulted in a compact language

ii

Flowers somehow resembled
Galaxies and for a moment
I throbbed with the secret

Sweetness of life, there where
The sun begins to cut laterally
Across years like a Godlike figure
And possessing an imagination

iii

He leads me to dream about the future
Spring was a metaphor for change
And I wanted to badly to change

That I would eat the fruit of
The transformation and feel
April’s rain down my cheeks
For flowers of May and ideas
In June, which would change the world.

EXERCISE OF GENIUS


5

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.

The Last Sunset


After I have reached The West for clothes of new colors I will perhaps know the rows Of ancient trees, like my ancestors I will know the two worlds That separated past and future Sunken to Ocean, lifted to skies … Continue reading