ON PRAYER & POETRY

My mind

Is a maze

With no

Way out

And in this

Midnight

Only the Devil

Casts shadows.

In my wounded

Night

The sky

Begins

To burn

Until

I enter

Loving prayer

And such

A clear choice

Is so sweet

And in wisdom

I am taken back

To a time

I am

Young enough

To believe

Nothing

And as I

Listen to

My internal

Dialogue

I encounter

Obtuse hope –

A broken mosaic

And a

Geometry

Of eyes

Where

I become

Weightless

Symmetry

And taste

Colors

Like a

Stretch

Of music.

I fly

And land

On a grassy hill –

Sweet as now

Where

Past and future

Softly

Evaporate.

Walking forward

Defenses,

And then

Thoughts

Diminish

As I play

Amongst

Bees

And white clover,

Allowing thought

To practically

Stop

And in the

Peace

Of nonlanguage

I find

A forest

Of language

Beyond mind.

I become

A connected

Study

In detachment.

Opening

My rested

Eyes

I am unified

With all creation

So fortunate

That I will

Die a poet.

4/11/2016

volcanoes rise

out of the sea.

purple gardens.

i climb up

a mountain

of blue-green grass.

a young woman’s voice

whispers,

“how calmly you indulge

my dreams.”

dark sky rolls in

like the hiss

of firecrackers.

the woman speaks

again with a quivering voice –

“who has seen the wind?”

THE WISDOM OF ART

The rain

Is steady

As I let

The dog in.

Playing with her

I activate

Tender hemispheres –

Just unwinding

In the nothingness

Of being –

The Divine

Reaches down

Like a hand

And lost,

Or perhaps found

In peaceful

Afternoon

I seem

To reach

Through

Earth’s atmosphere –

Catching

A glimpse

Of the expanding

Universe

In my mind

So I am torn –

Should I slip

Inward

Touching soul

Or should I

Be content

With materialism –

What side

Am I on?

Seeking,

At least,

Artistic balance,

I write words

Guided by Spirit

The way

The moon

Creates tides

And I find

That everything

Is mingled

Though living

Without inward

Searching

Is like

Perpetual sleep

So I feel

The tension

Like a worn rope

But with mindfulness

It is mere

Puppy scratches,

Healed by

This inward

Lightness.

Human beings

Are in perpetual

Conflict

Appearing as

Animated

Cave drawings

But as

Thought reaches

Nonthought –

Producing dusk,

Waiting to be

Reborn,

I find

In my words

Radiant hints.

Life

Without

Universal Love

Is like

Being stuck

On a stone

But as my

Pen glides

Like an enzyme

Of God

I slow

My consciousness

And find

That the cosmos

Lovingly

Grasps my hand.

Sing from within

From a preverbal source

That laughs at words.

The singing season

Is short as we

Busy ourselves

Through each exhausting day

Made more frantic

By this knowing

That breath is limited

And will end.

But in my inner exploration

It is clear

That all I need

Is to sing alone –

Quietly and in secrecy

Allowing myself to touch

The memory

Of eternal life

That does not need

Words, titles, degrees

Or any such nonsense –

Inside we find

Love that surpasses

All clichés –

And I am restored –

Convinced that it is

Just a game,

So I use what I have

And speak the words

I must and want

But allow myself

To become

The laughing Buddha

Who carelessly throws

Holy Books into flame –

And so, for a few moments

I am renewed

With the knowledge

That it is all madness,

And laugh.

And in so laughing,

Accept the limitations of all –

For we are all

In the same predicament,

But as we are restored

From our fate

And find God

In the soul of another,

We are, for a moment,

Liberated

they play the lottery

of god’s --

their rain is an old

funeral choir –

their breath is hollow

but looking at the mirror

my reflection is still there

and i find a red loving apple

inside,

so i resist and write,

becoming a peaceful

hole in sky.

11/29/17

you are vindictive yellow.

to you we are

a living dead.

do you care if babies

die starving?

to you childhood is a luxury

the country can’t afford.

we want to teach you about

gratitude, compassion, respect

and how the rest of us

deserve it.

what was green is now

your psychotic dust.

still I am hopeful,

being possessed with

idealism, joy and

stubborn jamboree

as activism is mikveh.

yours is a

sealess life.

11/15/17

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I sit

In a coffee-house

As I so often do,

Alone,

But never

Left alone

Sitting anonymously

In the warming crowd

Disappearing

In a favorite

Stuffed oversized

Chair

As if hiding

In a peaceful

Winter cloud.

I peer

Outward

Smiling

Inwardly

With my

Body tingling

In restful

Relaxation.

A man

At a small table

Sits by himself

Next to chilly

Drafty glass,

Struggling not

To cry.

Tears

Escape his eyes

As his head

Trembles,

Just a bit,

And he takes

Off his glasses,

Coughing,

Feigning,

Quite convincingly,

A cold

Or allergies

And for a few

Ephemeral seconds

I feel

What it is like

To be him –

To be

Left alone

And so,

For a moment,

I, too,

Shake

As if some kind

Of spiritual

Power surge

Flows through me,

And then,

So quickly

I am back,

Floating in peace

On the wheels

Of Cuban music.

The man coughs

Again,

This time

Even more convincingly,

But there is

Nothing to say –

Nothing to console

As I don’t

Know him

And can’t

Sustain

His hell.

I pray.

Once again

I feel the man’s

Palpitating heart

And I spiritually

Touch him

Bathing him

In pink promising light.

Now he is “OK,”

Touching his

Expertly

Styled hair

And gets lost

In turning

Newspaper pages.

For now,

He has hidden

Depression’s emptiness

And maybe,

Just maybe,

God answers prayers.

cathedral ceilings

are about as spiritual

as a stranger

jumping off the bus.

sermons are dark earth

scored with furrows.

rote prayers are like

poisoned snow falling

and leaves blown

by a cold wind.

but my love of God

is private and patient

noticing morning birds

hunting for food

as young leaves

drink in morning sunlight,

allowing me to heal myself

so that the moon

is my mother.

clouds are flowering blue

and mystical over the

face of stars.

11/08/2017

the bed begins to spin.

waves burst on a

moonlit beach.

romantic volcanoes.

newton’s heavenly bodies

sing into the microphone’s

stainless steel lung.

a blue liquid eye.

there are little orange suns

where my own eyes should be.

11/1/17

as we spoke on the back porch

the dog barked

at an apricot butterfly

and my heart

felt radioactive

with dangerous affection.

at night we snuggled

in a dark blue room

as time slowed,

dressed like a

japanese printmaker.

in january wind

we slept effortlessly

like winter night

snow birds.

as morning approached

distant voices were wind-soft

gliding over

a solitary branch

of noisy pigeons.

reaching to kiss you,

death

was a ghost

in heaven.

10/25/2017

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