The Talent for Lying

To be truly curious
It will take all of your heart
To listen to people and to question things
There is nothing revolutionary

Whatsoever about it
It’s the natural state of being human
You must write, read and live
As if you knew nothing

That you might explore
Every point of view
Every frame of reference
As valid, every formulas as good

Until there are no more words
And no more self in what
You have found, then tell yourself
The meaning of life

Lying is done with words
And also in silence
The world lies to itself everyday
To perpetuate ignorance

So that some might profit over the many
Poetry is a concentration on
The ultimate relationship
Of everything in the universe

With itself, the self that is only a half-truth
It’s the connections that are beautiful.

S e c r e t s of S i l e n c e

S e c r e t s of S i l e n c e

The ultimate tragedy is not to live an uneventful life
But to be oppressed by noise
And never know the dearness of silence
The good friend who never betrays
The love between the words

That is the poetry of experience
It does not require to be bullied into commotion
It can be introverted and define itself
Without judgement or explanations
The ultimate tragedy is then

To live in the constant self-ruminations
That does not shut up, projections and various falsehoods
Silence is freedom, never forget this!
Silence does not lead to God
But to the stars where silence is in the light

In the way life forms on planets and takes
Millions of years to mature
Silence is then the miracle of waiting
Of being patient until decedent divinity
We must not take sides, silence

Is the pure neutrality, the great objectivity
That won’t follow littleness of selfhood
But rather the great Mother
The thoughts that turn back to the Ocean
Where the human heart is not broken

Into a billion ideas and condemnations of right or wrong
Silence is to follow your nature
That expresses an inexpressible music
And has a darkness of adequate instinct
Silence is better than nearly all words

Than the idea that words and labels can save us
Words only ornament and elaborate
But never explain, they cannot do that
But silence can, that is why it is ancient and sought
By the seeker who knows that truth and beauty are illusions.

Great poems to not memorize

Great poems to not memorize

I’ve never memorized poems
I’ve only attempted to look
At the world with poetry

For beauty is everywhere
We just have to notice
And truth is everywhere
We only have to recognize her
I’ve never tried to be a poet

Poetry has worked
Through me like music
Like a brain on music

And a symphony on pause
A hush, a glow, maybe a tap
I look up to the light
At that moment, I’m a living
Prayer of poetry, sincerely

Surreal and in awe of how
Beautiful life can be
The inner journey that is ours.

The idea of Bounty

“Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude.”
~ Denis Waitley

If we can learn to live
Without desire
We can find peace
The mother of it all

Freedom, that has no name
And names can be changed
To suit the needs of the time
But the secrets to living

Are as old as life itself
There is a deep mystery
Around giving thanks
That gratitude, that is its own gate

A prayer that asks not
Anything for itself
But rather, enobles the offering
I am grateful to be part

Of the world
I am grateful to be part
Of society
I am grateful to be alive

Beneath this cosmos
Where beauty and truth
Are actually so wondrous
I feel the non-existence

Behind all that grows and dies
In time, I feel the energy
In space itself, between
Mountains and the sky

And how the trees give
Back to the air
And how the rivers
Sooth the aching earth.

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.

A THOUSAND PREGNANT SUNS

i

Here is a map of our country
Our souls glazed in books, language, ideas
This is the birthplace of our truth
In the aristocracy of craft

ii

In the feudalism of art
We are like painters on caves
Loving our canvas, more than our body
Here is the map of our journey

iii

I drive inland over poetic roads
Every person is a character of my muse
For life and death, is finally the same
We dare not taste its water

iv

The battlefield is a myth, there is no
Right or wrong, only neutrality, nature
Creation, we became poets
To find our way back to the light

v

We wrote of the promise
Of a thousand pregnant suns.

MARTIAL CADENCE OF HUMAN BEINGS

Low tide, flat water, sultry sun,
How I wish I could adore
Human beings, as I do the Earth

In her millimeter’s measures
The grasp of days on wings of transparency
The dauntless leaping of the

Holy day to sunshine’s earlobes
Neat night, tucked ocean, blinding ray
Of morning upon my cheeks

How I wish I could find the truth
Of our species, in these yellow afternoons
Arormed with bronze, against our folly

But the love given to us by the Earth
It’s not an end, it’s just a beginning
Silence wraps silence, and answers
Run mute to a future that is divergent.

Notes to Hands I cannot See

I am a beggar for experience
That drop like stars from some beyond
The dropped flakes of virtual minds
We meet more people, every year

I am a beggar for the Color Green
Who tells me secrets of dying syllables
The poetry of admitting wombs
That are not fertile, nobody is perfect

I am a beggar for life’s true worth
To find the deep meaning, behind the chatter
To eclipse the tremors of expectation
And love the gravity of life’s uncertainty

I am a beggar for higher lands
A divine Ferret whom I cannot find
A spiritual paradise of some extremity of mercy
A novel woman who welcomes me home

I am a beggar, because of what I perceive I lack
Toyed in the final inches from love
This is my letter to the world
Of what I risked to gain savory everything.