Poet's song

It is in the first of morning
that I sense my magnum opus--there
among that which is most mundane,
and like a ghost that I
may never see or touch--
of which I know no thing at all,
except that he is there.

I said it was not fair
that he should haunt me,
said that he is mine;
let him emerge from shadow's shell
and ride my lips,
my mind, my passion,
then release from spirit realm,
no matter how diaphanous,
another breath of truth.

I know.
As Adam felt a universe implode for him
within his consciousness
and as his sinews formed,
he gave us God
creating in the endless dance
among the stars,
co-creating in our midst
while light shone down

his own magnum opus,
(and for me as well)
a pathway for retreating night,
and all the painters, sculptors,
physicists called out for light,
became aware of texture
and the price of tears...
and time and years
could disappear.

He is my friend,
this little formless god
who plods along with me,
not big enough to share.
Come on, a little farther,
there is starlight here, he says,
and you
have not yet learned to dance.
~

Aware of Awareness

That I know,
that I have insight
is a grace, so I am told.
But how much more
may wonder yet abound
when I become aware
that I have known the world
to stretch its shore for me,
disclose its mystery
behind the mists
else I should be
confined forever
in cold certainty.
~

Taking Stock

Three years to go
and if I fill them all with breath
eight decades will click in, complete.
Already I may pinch my skin
and see the ridges stay
when I release.

It is a curious thing that I observe,
not at all my self, this body
dancing with old twigs, smooth rocks,
and closet skeletons.

I don't hold much
with praying anymore,
would not reclaim decaying youth
when I was much too dull to see
that every now is all there is,
and all there needs to be.

Is that not risible?
That life may not afford
another hope at all? Shall I
one moment after death
be loathe to die?
~

Fantasies

Do they invade our consciousness,
or are they merely mental paintings
of our unfulfilled desire?
Always, the happy endings
add cloud fluff, and drift away
a little while until we call them back.

Little comedies, they are,
for just an audience of one.
No budget, no critique,
no lines to memorize,
no little boy to stand outside,
his nose pressed to the glass
and wondering.

Just now, however, I am looking back at him
and wishing, oh so very much
that he were really there
to watch these pictures all go by
and share his insights
molded from the womb, sparing me
the dark-begotten gains
of my sophisticated greed.

Move on, young fellow.
Flirting with the dead is not for you.
Here is your brush and canvas.
Go on and paint for us reality--
paint only what you see.
~

The path behind my eyelids

The path behind my eyelids

The inner course contains
a happy irony.
for as I seek the higher self,
I see the breakaway
of little pieces of the I
and there is no regret,
for even self
is locking up his empty house,
content to evanesce.

There is no question of nobility;
no self-effacing sacrifice.
There is no loss,
for though the all we know
be just a child of mind
it is complete forever;
you and I are none
that may contend, are one
to consummate a universe
without an end.

There is a single refuge
from the storm, the fire, the enemy.
There is a single element
that will surpass desire,
to place reality beyond pretense.
It is the only certainty I know,
the antidote to strife,
for love alone one day
will take me by the hand
to cross the bridge of death
from life to life.
~

A stitch in time

Somewhere the watcher sits
upon the instant moment's edge--
there, where spirit smiles, as if
to punctuate the order of the day.

And all the while, the breath is pending.
All the while, the heart rests,
time dissolves, and God may sleep
upon a throne still etched in light.

Might that one trillionth of a second
mark a new eternity? The concept
dressed in fantasy, becomes fair game
and I must step within.

Any photograph will do.
A present simply gifted,
storms the battlements of history
with just the turning of a page.
Enter
.
With a click of will there is created
life forever, sweeping down
upon complacency, a Narnia
upon a timeless stage
to touch, to resurrect,
to catch upon the air another now,
another living tapestry
of consciousness--quite enough,
I think, to fill a restless soul.
~

Meditation on Love

(Canto I)
It is vision, not desire, that moves us.
It revels in its glimpse of each eternity
All that is real may flood our eyes
and feed our hearts--a universe
our hands may never touch.

It is the priceless gift of weakness
we may cherish now,
not in ourselves alone, for need
provides love's moment
as love's catalyst--
rushing in upon us suddenly
as if it were a wave
to drown our cloying peace.

The well of tears is deep, compelling,
offering the draught of memory
so soon released before,
so set aside for laughter's sake,
so alien to the desert's rootless plain.
There is new joy in weeping here.

Then feed upon such love as this.
Breathe it as each quantum particle
may catch and send its spirit light
between millennia--translate the longing
in each chest for loveliness
and weep with me
among the wounds of innocents
that cannot heal.

Weep, and rage, and pound
upon the thunder in the sky
that speaks of love unable to return,
that speaks of loss within soft rain,
forever unredeemed.

The wound is open when the love crowds in.
Somehow the irony of joy and tears
must dwell together;
tragedy must marry triumph.
Ke who celebrates undying breath
must cling in kira love to kira death.
~
Canto II
Though love may be the bond
that seals the universe,
it may not be defined...
not created, nor brought to an end.
Unseen, untouched, unjudged,
it may attenuate its fire
but never die
despite the cooling of desire.
It is the blessed tie that speeds
its "yes" across the emptiness
of loss, and of the darkening day.
~
Canto III
My mind swept through
the gamut of analogy
to teach what love is.
Only one who knows
may understand, for knowing
of itself is undefined.
The promontory made for leaping
is unreachable--love's gift remains
the mystery creating all the world
of this unending now.
~

And there was evening, and there was morning--another day

Aware of light beneath the eyelids
clinging to the world just departing,
folding silently away,
I feel but slight reluctance...
as if the final chapter of a book
were too soon taken from me--
is that what death is like?
Is that the way the spirit I-ness planned?

I think these shifts of consciousness
are slivers of the pie,
surprise rehearsals
for a laudable adventure
in transition soon to come,
when breath is softer still
and with the barest touch of sadness
drifts away to die.
~