Saturday, March 27, 2010


When I had wings I flew with the heartbeat of the world, along the tree-lined forests, through the ocean's spray, over frozen mountains, out into the darkend sky, passing by a silent moon, streaming through a blazing sun, (where I singed my feathers) . . . and on into the far reaches of time and space . .  . . . where I was lost forever . . . but perfectly content!


here is a door to the unknown
i stand before it lost
and uncertain
where do i go from here?
is there a place for me
or thee?
and who is the master
of the key to this place . . .
who writes the rules
which keeps me barred
from entry?
if i wander on my pathways
a little longer
will i find the door
for me?
or thee?
will i make it right somehow
or will my lostness
hinder me forever?

Will i wander around in this
bleak landscape endlessly,
or can i find exoneration
waiting for me at the foot of a tree?
an understanding
an awareness
of Truth?
will it be found on the river banks?
waiting like a life raft
to set me free . . .
like that key
to the door,
the portal
to belief . . .


No Silence

sound lingers
in the air like
lake fog shrouding around
with a dark perfume, a fragrance fingering,
forcing me to hear
what I hear . . .
it drives me like a run
through the grass fields and
on and on to the hills of
starry blue
looking for the silent spaces . . .
drumbeat fighting
against the storm . . .
east sky, a strip of blue
running through
impeachable clouds
and the flutes give me
silver wings
to fly, with blue stars through
grass fields
and i, like yellow bird,
land on a single stem
while wind blows
and rocks me to the melody
drowning out memories
and pain

-The Lonely-

I have all these people around me
wanting to talk at me,
yet I feel more alone than ever . . .

Today -
I found myself reaching for the phone
to call my sister . . .
how crude a slap it was
when I remembered in that split second
that she was long gone . . .

that second
quickly passed,
yet set my heart on a downward spiral
like a jet plane
destined to crash and burn . . .

hurting like a wound
and bleeding like a still cry
in the darkened night;

a thin blade thrust
and then turned
to rise the pain . . .

the only solace
being the other
lonely ones, like
so many,
we talk about our loneliness
as if gloating
over treasure
that only we can see. . .

I send this refrain to a friend,
and I realize this is what I do . . .
speak to my friends in my head
and imagine they want to hear
my sad song . . . left on their doorsteps
like a newspaper . . .
who cares
if the pages are blank
it isn't about us after all . . .
its about us all . . .
together like a gathering storm
we rise like huge clouds above the mountains,
insubstantial at first
but gathering our strengths
we can change
the environment of our lives. . .


In the morning
the fog
spilled through the valley
like creamy milk
drowning the horses
except for their voices
which carried above
and over the cliff
resting on my ears;

and to the tune
 of a bird song
 the mists
 over the lake
with stray
bits of rippling sun
slipping through. . .
and the silted hollow log
at the edge of the muddy waters
sifted the living and the dead while
a lone fish slapped at the silent
spaces in its cold still world,

and at the verge
of two alien domains
  a tiny blue flower
bent its weary head
beneath the droplets of fog.


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