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

SLEEP

To be cradled,
By angels,
While I sleep,
In love as high,
As my darkness
Is deep,
With Holy kindness,
Rid my blindness,
And bid this heart
May start to weep.

GREAT SPIRIT

Great spirit,
Whose ghostly face
I see,
Where sound 
Be heard,
Or light
Observed,
Hiding,
Just beneath the ear,
Secreted in the eye,
Quivering
Within the tongue,
To steal sweet textures,
Or perched,
To pluck a fragrance
From the air,
Forever young
Your beating heart,
And fleet your feet
Upon the ground,
Shifting there,
As all the shapes,
Thus designed,
There,
Outlined
By the grace
And favour
Of curious delight,
Might your face
Be found. 

HUNGER

The oppressive pecking 
Of narcissistic ravens,
Stealing every errant crumb,
The vacancies of their gut,
Sharpen a cruel gaze,
That wastes nothing,
In this thievish alchemy,
The cheapest paste,
Transforms
To jewels. 

STAR

I remember this bright star,
Whose light bestows my liberty,
Banishing afar,
Those shadows of desire,
For this itself is my fire,
Its warm flame of fullness,
Only felt,
Through this crack in time,
An axis for heaven or hell in turn,
Where burns the lustre of idle dreams,
To ash and wholesome plenitude.


MILLSTREAM MIDNIGHT

This body,
A mere token of my presence,
As the wind whispers its advance,
A secret splash,
Another presence
In the cold, black,  
Reflective calm
Of the wide mill stream,
Before me,
Now retired from industry, 
Resting in its own nature,
As am I,
In this moment,
Seeing,
Without looking,
Hearing,
Without listening,
Being,
Without trying,
As the trees dissolve
Their luminous,
Silver laced contour,
With the dark sky,
Unbothered by the clouds,
Yielding to the breeze,
The stream flows on,
Silently,
Only the reflection
Does not move,
But shimmers,
Pierced, occasionally,
With the silhouette
Of a drifting duck,
Or moorhen,
Whose wild cackles
I pretend not
To understand.
The lights softly glowing
Behind drawn curtains,
In a mansion,
Dwarfed,
By the nature
It gazes upon.
The tall poplar spires,
Hushing sentinels
Against a streaking
Orange hem.
An invisible midnight,
Has come,
And gone,
Even the church bell,
Missed its passing.
I slip back,
Into my rags,
My role,
And my car,
With only the mud
On my shoe,
To remind me
Of fairy tales.

INNOCENCE


Innocence, 
Sweet flower of bliss,
The perfect child,
In boundless meadow,
Perfectly wild,
Naught to lose,
And naught to gain,
Save the kiss
Of sun and rain,
Heeding not
The gardner's hand,
Nor in need
Of other land.

HOW

Softer still,
Than dandelion whispers,
A more gentle falling
Upon your ear,
Than a flight of
Angel feathers,
The mighty silence
Of listening,
A quicksilver shimmering,
Brushing that same
Sweet silk,
Glistening,
Between these words.
I bid you hear,
The eternal echoes 
Of this heart,
Shapeless,
And free,
More common
Than dust,
As precious
As starlight,
Warmer than
Ten thousand suns,
Do I love thee.

HOLDING PATTERN

As the sky
Contains its clouds,
And the ocean holds
Its breathing swell,
Gently,
We appear,
As mysterious strangers,
Different it seems,
In each other's dreams,
My home
Is your horizon,
My secrets,
Painted in your style,
Yet these are but
The sounds of silence,
The dance of stillness,
Shared,
For a while.

INVISIBLE

Our invisible self,
Both elephant,
And room,
The sorcerer,
And his broom.

APPEALING

Through parting clouds,
The moon and stars,
Shift their gaze,
Warm eyes
And nodding smiles,
Beam down,
As another man's laughter,
Peals triumphant,
To the ends of time,
His brittle mask of reason,
Blowing as dust
Upon the ground.

OVERTHROWN

That knowledge,
Which would usurp mystery
From its rightful throne,
Is an impostor.

QUEST

The single request,
Made from birth,
Since suckling breast,
Till laid in earth,
Is that you foretell
Much more than I,
To spell my worth,
Before I die.

ALIGHT

There is no more such warm a delight,
Than tearing out each serious page,
And then as tinder, to set alight,
Upon the roaring flame of laughter.

CUPID

Thus it seems
That shattered dreams,
Will feel like broken hearts,
When they're but the ways
And ricochets,
Of Cupid,
And his darts.

TOUCH

Touch is a confirmation of unity,
Two sensations 
Only born 
When they meet as one, 
A metaphor
In the language of feeling  
Closest to our hearts.

MOONDANCE

My ring-a-ring-o-roses,
Jiving queen,
Whose Mona Lisa
Smile serene,
Confides her secret,
There to glean,
The invisible hides
In what is seen.

PATHWAY

It never was
The mere computation
Of cold probability,
Only for the seeing,
But sparks of fire,
Exploding,
Above a sea
Of volatile tears,
Feeling their way
Into being,
Countless years
Of new tomorrows,
Baby steps of desire,
Confounded,
By the tripwire of morality.

TOP PRIORITY

Every question has a rainbow hue,
Not pertaining to just this,
Or just that,
But like a spinning top,
It is the whole,
Balanced,
On a point.

PEBBLES

Dropping pebbles,
Silken, silvered ripples 
Surround me,
Escaping,
To a distant past,
An unknown shore,
Carrying with them,
The broken reflection,
Of me,
Dropping more.