A Raindrop

 

What is small wherever - ever is?

How is it that the universe Is found when one assumes the infinite

and too, understands the quantum degree that sets the essence of why a single raindrop,

upon a leaf, images of all things knowable and leap in wonder to the unknowable

in reflection of how one leaf is one of many on a branch and that each limb is one of many

upon a single tree – a tree found among multitudes of trees in the woods

and the woods are many places in a forest and the one forest is part of many landscapes

that sits below the mountains of one range and that belt across the highlands

that stand to drain the rain unto the rivers - byway of the endless rills, creeks and streams

that flows across the deltas to find a source. To form a loch; a kettle; a lagoon;

a lake of many bodies of life.  A tree of life that feeds the open land; that sustains

the prairies of grasses and that formed a fjord; an estuary that follows a gravitational course 

to join into a gulf that knows the secrets of the deep seas; immense oceans that hide the

continent’s deepness; that keep hidden the age of this single blue sphere - perceived to be

in solitude; a lone planet amongst the immense space that forms a universal family.

One member planet belonging to the sun’s tree.

A sun of many suns that create a humble galaxy – the Milky Way galaxy found in a family of

a cluster of galaxies.  All accounted for within the infinite tree that is found upon a single

tree of endless trees and all of it rests within a single spark of the unfathomable –

Everything held upon a single leaf - a singularity.

Everything one needs to know begins within a single raindrop.

A Moment in Haste

 

 

A Moment in Haste

 

The dormouse came to be

When beguiled by a notion

That what is temporary

Is too, infinite;

And said to the white knight,

“Make no haste

For the labyrinth has no taste”.

 

Impermanence is a canvass

That keeps no secrets

And understands that waste

Is left for the dullards

Who neither believe -

Nor think beyond the grey woods

That they harbor in.

 

Speak to me universe

That I may hear infinity;

That I may understand the end

Of an event horizon

And that I may grasp

The voice of chaos

Explain human pathos.

Dreams in Good Form

This shape came upon view

A ship of antiquity

Silent - as a prayer’s felicity.

An object appearing new

Yet, the illusion was untrue

Afloat upon incarnadine sea

As the winds wailed against the lee.

Euripides scripts the tragedies

Telling of skeletons and scree

Of plays in poetry and degree,

Schemas and sense of geometry.

Dreams with vespertilian wings.

The bat in the belfry sings

While Euclid’s hand defines

The conforms and the confines

Where universal lines

Are undistinguished through time

And the good ship hauls away all rhymes.

(image AI-generated)

Beat

 

There is a beat 

And she bares it -

For uneasiness

Is quiet solitary business

For those that dwell

Upon a sword’s fell.

Oh! -so smitten by the cutlass!

It is deadly and deemed godless.

There is a beat

Smoldering within

An unheard fearin’

A stillness that screams

Out for a tone that redeems 

The wild child;

The carefree child;

The frightened beat.

There is a beat

That mimics mother’s voice

And distills sin into choice.

Something so vastly

The macabre is ghastly;

Only the calming reverie

Can quiet what she be -

For she must forbid it.

There is a beat

A relentless beat

That sets the pace

And mellows her face.

You can hear it

You can feel it

The purple haze

Swirls into her craze.

Beat

Beat

Beat

Sweet – 

Yes, sweet

Beat

Beat

Beat…

 

 

 

 

 

A Window's View

 

Window out;

Window in;

Window.

 

What hath thee for me?

What is it that I may see

When standing in

And looking out the attending

Panes while inside idles elder time.

 

What is that unforeseen line

That weaves cloth of fine

Silks with the insulting braids of a rope

Twisted and tied tightly to keep hope

Of dreams abandoned and forgotten.

 

What has this window misbegotten

Outside, on the other side, of wanton

Wonders, pleadings and poetry readings

Asking, “does that glass offer wiser headings;

Is that frame the reclaim of a poem’s place?”

 

 Where have you been - wearing that stilted face?

Does the past offer any key to a future race;

If you stay within, then will you ever see

What holds or means this pauper’s decree,

“One cannot see nor keep a window’s view”.

 

What have we left that is not old nor new?

Is this window a fragment upon time’s queue

Reflecting a yearning of what awaits

Or a ruing of great regret that late was fate’s

Hand - that neither opened nor closed the window’s view.

 

Window.

Window in.

Window out.

A Nation of Murmurations

 

A clamor of chatter

a chatter of skeletons screeching

A cloud of longings

a cloud of closings coming

A clutter of chaos closing

a matter of calamity calls

A concentration of condemns

a convention of consensus convenes

A congregation of conventions

a congregation of consenting constituents

A constellation of conditions

a constellation of concerns connects

A filth of finery 

a filth of flies’ flitter

A flight of foul foragers

a flight of opining flags flutter

A gathering of gaudy gods

a gathering of goons & loons

A hosting of harrowed helots 

a hosting horde of horror 

A roost of starlings

a roost of ranting rogues

A scourge of scarlet

a scourge of scoundrels scowling

A vulgarity of violence

a vulgarity of vultures

A vein of pain

a vault of fault

A winsome warrior of wander 

a wonder with words.

The Other Side Poetry Night

 

time has a switch that sets off,

    in all darkness and is a faint light

that brings the bewildered,

                   the beholden

and

                   the benevolent

together

as a family of love.

Time and date is 21 of November

Six-thirty opens the mic!

Paladins!! come to the faint light

And rejoice

the rejoin of poets

And lovers of song.

The River Stigmata

 

in the river

where one must

love floating

beyond; below the blue

while beneath; lower

where the raging draws

one into a vortex; abyss

and calm runs - 

free from the stigma

of drowning

to be free.

The Muse Constance

 

The Muse Constance

A boarding pass on the good ship.

A breath to behold upon the horizon.

Promise of a long and fateful trip

Upon the decorous Steamer – Kismet.

The open sea - calm without strait.

The first dance to celebrate

As the muse plays on into the late

For there is no inevitable to forget.

No eventual; no certainty; no end.

The edge is infinite - beyond the planets;

The stars; the galaxies – the eternity

Of seas where the knowns offend.

‘Tis an infinitesimal flicker of light

Across the timeless dark of existence.

Come my traveling delight

We will dance to the muse Constance.

Terminal - Final

Terminal - Final

“It is terminal…”

The words lingered

As her eyes wavered

At the acceptance

Of such a sentence.

The heart stilled -

And for a moment filled

With ponderous weight

Of the final; of the eventual. It is late

At the terminal stop of await.

She is a beautiful fragile vase

Life is rampant in that lovely face

And her grace is her space

A gift to the crestfallen at her state.

We sit, we laugh and toast against life’s fate.

We bid farewell - until we meet again.

Yet, that word, terminal rumbles its fain!

Shall we wait at the station

Arrival and wonder if damnation?

Or run to the departure gate carrying hopes of redemption.

At the window’s ledge high above 

Heaven’s vestibule sits a white dove 

Calling home lost souls and spirits of love.

Many have come and gone through this place

Where young and old wait in pain or grace

For a last-second of song or prayer

To save one more breath; one last sayer

Before the departure reaches time.

 Ahh! Anne’s beautiful eyes find eternal rhyme!

While we travelers – we must cross the same terminal line.

   

For friend Anne - rest in peace.

Terminal

 

It is terminal…

The words lingered

As her eyes wavered

At the acceptance

Of such a sentence.

The heart stilled -

And for a moment filled

With the ponderous weight

Of final, of eventual. It is late.

At the terminal stop of await.

She is a beautiful fragile vase

Life is rampant in that lovely face

And her grace is her space

A gift to the crest fallen at her state.

We sit, laugh and toast against life’s fate.

We bid farewell - until we meet again.

Yet, that word terminal echoes its fain.

Shall we wait at the station

Arrival and wonder if damnation

Or run to the departure gate and redemption.

Particle Steps and Time Waves

 

The particles made their pulse

and the side of positive

assuaged the opposite negative,

“It is time to wave.” spoke Impulse.

His weary eyes need to feed the mind;

wondering by seeking the dormouse

who lives there – near the old farmhouse.

In the moraine - where mother’s flowered blouse

changes and is changing everything in every way

while in the mind it remains the same byway.

There by the old wooden gate - a white rabbit;

the defiant lake sits so still – quietly,

nary a ripple to note waves of tranquility.

His way is old, while his mind converses gently,

“Why the path will end where it began – satiety”.

And he gathers himself.  He collects the panoramic scenes

Of the long horizon that now approaches his time;

a fence line runs by the abandoned barn - in between.

Frame by frame, a kinetoscope story in rhyme

retelling of life approaching the vanishing point

as hesitant steps near a path that says: Wrong Way.

He says to the hawk and to the mourning dove,

“I have been this way – always, always gathering more love”.

He says to the wind, “until tomorrow concedes

and it becomes today – I will know where it leads”.

On the other side of the other side

Crossing bridges that sit aging in the narrow

path along the way and too, crossings of harrow

that is in the mind and just as suspended.

As a breath, just before the last second has ended,

Whispers, “remember me today and tomorrow”.