I feel You
in the sun illuminating
this frozen landscape.

I speak; You talk
and I hear You
in a breeze
that scatters from high limbs
tufts of snow –
little white angels fluttering and dancing
on currents.

In this season of withdrawal,
purity is born of introspection
and I taste the deepening connection in the

still

and the

quiet.

I sigh;
branches sway,
and I breathe in the fragrance of

Union

and wonder why I ever
turn away.

© 2008

that unnamable but familiar

something within you

that I knew was mine.

It stirs interstitially

within my being,

whirling and pulsating

between my tissues,

radiating outward -

magnetically searching

to connect with that part of itself

residing in you.

It seeks completeness

- potentiality fulfilled -

and when you’re too far away

it retreats into the ground of me

patiently waiting to reemerge

in the spring of you.

Now, with your return,

it cautiously but enthusiastically

seeks the surface

responding to warmth of

an unexplainable kinship -

budding ethereally,

burgeoning in its essence,

absorbing all it had missed,

finding wholeness

in you.

© 2008

here we are again

separated by the blue veil between dimensions

touching only on the translucent side of dreams.

Through the ages,

I have whirled with dervish mystics;

I have drunk the blood of Christ;

I have even pillaged with pirates,

but no passion has filled me

like you.

I want to be reborn where you are;

I implore you,

where will you be?

I’ll meet you there.

I’ll meet you in the Renaissance;

I’ll meet you post-Armageddon.

I’ll meet you in a still lake’s reflection,

in the eyes of a child,

in the quiet of a frozen landscape,

in the light of a ghost star,

or at the tip of a poet’s pen.

I’ll meet you on a battlefield,

in the echo of a scream,

in Dante’s infernal thoughts,

or on the seventh terrace of purgatory

where I will gladly burn to ashes

that I might feel you again.

Matters not whether we’re thieves or clergy;

Matters not whether we’re one or two,

or fragrant racemes of the same vine -

our awareness shall transcend any state of being.

If only we can cross this cosmic threshold,

we will find one another –

be drawn unto each other

in a Divine reunion

driven from within.

And the Universe itself will sigh.

© 2008

beckons the sun

and a pink sky

holds the Ash

in silhouette;

when still waters

reflect Woodcock

upon the wing

and the Heron’s

great blue matches

colors rising,

there is a “click” –

inaudible –

a latch unlocked

by precise combination

of timed events

turned carefully

by Source.

Gentle winds

blow from southwest

and there is a  ”c r e a k” –

unheard –

a portal opening

(one of many) -

an invitation

to senses of

at least

the sixth order.

Who responds?

Might I cross over

to become a denizen

of all possibility -

to flit with grace and ease

among dancing orbs?

What lies there

in unfathomable dimensions

except parallel versions

of me?

Might I

experience them all

simultaneously?

And all the while,

here,

beneath a cloudless end,

would any one be

the wiser?

© 2008

from out of the aching

of this visceral inflammation

I might be reborn

on the shores of your lips -

cast like a spell

in whispered ponderings of awakening, and

be worn upon your sleeve

before partaking of skin

ripe for the taking

and delving deeply under it, and

be the bridge that crosses

into the taboo

where risk becomes exquisite and

your incarcerated secrets are freed, and

be the temptress

of scalding pleasure

and the sorceress of scathing pain

only to slather your rawness

with a richly emollient brew, and

be the driest sauvignon

to quench your parched soul

and stagger the indignation of the righteous,

and mostly

be the one to slake your desire,

then create your longing for more.

This is my divine need.

© 2008

Paints portraits in moist soil

And buries dreams in cloth

As sky glows evening blue

And black crows caw from wing.

Night veils its secret thoughts

In mist within the grove

Unto which she is drawn

To enter a portal

To the forgotten side.

Warm breezes brush her knees

At fringe of thin tunic

As old minstrel poets

Recite prophetic verse

From atop ancient hill.

Seers among Willows

Read omens in white clouds

As Druid voices rise

In Oracles’ music

Beneath a healing moon.

Hooded cloaks fall away

As hands join in circle

Where dancing arbiters

Lost in their augury

Call forth admonition:

“Seek truth beneath great Oak,

But sleep must not befall

There under the Yew Tree

Else dreams in distortion

Shall call death upon thee.”

Thus, she died as foretold

Reborn in unity -

A solstice of Self through

Consecrated visions

Dreamt under Tree of Life.

© 2008

It lingered there, so warm and fair - to walk with me..."

~ Frank Sinatra

We'll find you there

Entranced by

Sirens' song

Standing at your

Open window

In gull-blue house

At end of

Williamson Road;

I'll be wearing a tiara

Made of Hydrangea vine

Carrying my

Dog-eared copy of Keats,

A bouquet of wild notions,

And a bottle of wine

Wrapped in

Macramé of ideas.

Amphitrite's dance

Will alert you

To my approach

As I stop to

Admire the Horsemint

Delicately dotting

The landscape

In colorful adjectives;

The salt-laden breezes

Will beckon as

Unlatched screen door

Of your beach house

Will clap out some

Welcoming prose

To your guests.

I'll see others

Approach from atop

A sandy knoll

With Conch shells

Held close to their ears

And know that

Buddha is smiling

At their dharmic display;

As we drift toward

Your wood stairs,

You'll greet us with

Your whitewater smile

And feet as bare

As your soul

While waves of Frank's

"Fly Me to the Moon"

Crash on the shore

Of our anticipation

And a benevolent riptide

Pulls us into

Glad tidings.

© 2008

The Conch is used in Tibetan Buddhism to call together religious assemblies and in Vajrayana Buddhism, the Conch is a symbol that proclaims the truth of the dharma.

http://www.religionfacts.com/buddhism/symbols/conch.htm

In mutual attraction

Move closer to

One another;

Electricity flares

As they seek

Deep embrace;

Energy writhes

While nape of

An “S“‘s neck

Is cooled by the

Breath of an “h” -

“Shhhh”….

Can you hear the

Beads of apostrophes

Drip on white sheets?

Can you feel the

Pure bliss

As climactic waves

Of fluid expression

Fertilize ideas?

“Ahhhh”…

All becomes calm

As fetal notions gestate

And a composition

Begins to form;

A poem is born.

© 2008

“Out beyond ideas of

Wrongdoing and rightdoing,

There is a field.

I’ll meet you there.”

~Rumi

Liquid Persuasion

Beyond the gate

Of right and wrong

There is an arboretum

Where you will

Drape me in

Finest silks

From Turkestan

And seduce me

With your full-bodied,

Burgundy words

And Sauvignon ideas

Imported through

The ages with all

Their smoky allure intact

And their rich, seamless

Texture still fragrant

With blackberry and plum,

Cloaked in dark chocolate

And infused with

Sun-ripened currants,

And I will drink down

Your liquid persuasion

Until my palate is numb

And every cell

In my body glows

With the sanguine of you,

For you are both

Spirit-maker

And sommelier,

A rare combination of

Dry and sweet,

And I shall never lose

My thirst for

Union with you.

© 2008
Reference:  Barks, Coleman, Translator, The Essential Rumi, Special Edition,

                        New York, Quality Paperback Book Club, 1998

Leaving dazed patrons wondering what they just heard;

Meretriciously staggering on booted legs,

He makes way to built-in taps on cold barrel kegs

In dark place he has carefully hidden from view

To conceal his surreptitious, sweet-burning brew

Born slowly of purifying distillation,

And at times of agitating fermentation.

He tends to his volatile spirits in secret

Occasionally restocking his cellaret,

Awaiting visit from flamboyant flapper-muse

Who might roar in to tend her own flammable booze

Concocted of intoxicating elixir

That makes edges of his imagination blur

And upon which he has come to wholly depend

For showy verses that are spangled and sequined.

He reaches for words held high in delirium

In that place where he loses equilibrium,

Dancing round hand-in-hand with the incorporeal

Searching mute crowds for the rhyming and lyrical,

But no thought lies behind their stupefied faces

And no Chambord liqueur is served in these places,

So he falls to hard floor as just an empty flask

Still unable to fulfill poet’s only task.

© 2008