A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Chosen with care,
A rounded flatness,
Befit to spin,
These stones,
These words.
Set in motion,
To a brief,
Rhythmic flight,
A skip, a skid, a skim,
Bouncing out
From the shore,
Yet all too fast,
Only the footprints linger on,
An arrow-head
Of expanding rings,
Point toward the last,
Marking the place,
The moment of sinking,
As words that play
Upon our thinking,
Can only trip
Across the skin,
Until, all spent,
They drop within,
Beneath the superficial layer,
Heading down,
To bed of prayer.


As a shell upon the ear
Close pressed will bring the sea,
Within my heart, so faint yet clear,
Is whispering to me
A voice in kind to silence near,
A zephyr stirring constantly,
As soft as only I may hear
Yet recognise with certainty.

Lucid, though no word be told,
Insistent as a drum,
The burden of its message holds
A distant, sacred sum,
Another region of my soul
Is calling me to home,
For it be one, yet not the whole
Of all it may become.


The unseen breakfast
Deep communion
A silken stillness
Worn by the cat

Hunger appeased
Spoon by spoon
Tea circling
A clock
Stakes out the silence.


Walking the garden of my mind,
Every moment,
Might I find
As a kite to fly,
Each wakeful one -
On currents, rising,
Kissed by the sun,
Gifts of warm possibility,
Pulling up playfully
Higher than high,
Tugging and lifted
Beyond to the sky,
Where today's but a whisper
Down in the trees,
Of wishes unfolding
Blown on by a breeze,
Where dreams can begin,
And reason descends
From along the sharp ridge
Where the garden ends.