The Poet's Word

Sway, the blades of green —
Cascade, in rustling tones,
Mistrals glide o'er glades,
O'er sands and o'er stones.
But whence the ghost depart?
What calls the whistling moans?
Their pitch dances on the drums,
Sweet warbling rings ear bones,
In song.

Therein — the orbital rounds,
Oscillate atoms and spheres,
That move the airy planes,
Through space and atmospheres,
Conjures zephyrs from the air —
In gales or in gusts appears —
Nobles or peasants at prayer,
Are moved in sacred fears,
In awe.

And the waters rise and fall,
At the whimsy of the moon,
And the paradox of parentage,
But by the mercy of each swoon,
There would be nor I, nor thou,
Nor beauty unfurling a cocoon.
But only for the Poet's word,
A cosmos would ne'er be hewn,
In love.

Ardent

That wind, that dust, that water,
Converge within cells and souls,
Flesh and fire, like ardent coals,
Each both infuse and abutter,
And reveal.

And in the glisten in the eye,
And the crease within the cheek,
There the I and Thou bespeak,
As the substance within the sigh,
Reveals.

In pain, and water, and blood,
Embers kindle in infant flame,
And the holy calling of a name,
The cherished and ardent bud,
Reveals.

Though every flame will flicker,
Short on fuel, with many a douse,
Yet with kindred stars will rouse,
And will again blaze the quicker,
and reveal,

The burning,
The living,
Ardent.

Shame

Through the air and time and space,
A breath, a shade, in a shadow,
Echoes of evil, shades of gray,
And silence weighs as dark will grow.
As throats clear, and as feet shuffle,
Gnostic moguls — posers in the know,
Shame.

And powers consume as they control,
The glass-eyed pinstriped tycoon,
Amnesic soul void of warmth, touch,
Primal primate paws mere doubloon,
Climbing a collapsing card castle,
Sword falls, the king is a buffoon,
Shame.

The angels and sprites of innocents,
Glimpsed in a certain slant of light,
Dewey eyed — they laugh at usurpers,
That surrender their souls to the night,
And spurning grace — the charity of God —
For the sad place, where might makes right,
Shame.

That mystics and church ladies fathom,
Arrayed in rags or their dowdy clothes,
The light and love through all and all,
In life and death, and life they repose,
Serene; as presidents and potentates,
In corrupt clamor, collapse in the throes
of shame.

Blossom

A bud will blossom and reveal,
Hues and pollen seduce the bees,
While bug and beast do regale,
An innocent will find his knees,
Are kissing the sod.

The blossoms of countless trees,
Reveal as they feed in flourish,
Yet calloused pilgrims walk amid,
Beauty that will call and nourish,
And lure to laud.

Blossoms release the parent branch,
Weeping flutters in floral tints,
A breeze breathes a confetti dance,
Covering roots with gentle hints,
Of an Elysian ballad.

Shell

The times bland over life and soul,
As magma quells the din of stories —
Mid-plot from time and yet preserved —
Lifeless and lost in the cavities,
Now void of breath, and void of touch,
Sculpted shades of muted ecstasies,
Of life,
and death.

Years add layers to shrinking bones,
As snowfalls encase maturing pines,
Bending beautiful to gravity's call,
The skyward ascent gently declines,
As an upward gaze in muted allure,
Bows sorrowful to a frame's confines,
In life,
and death.

An impish spirit unfurls its wings,
Both born and beholden to the sod,
With apocalypse-sight, steps on air,
Denying a disenchantment facade,
And though to plummet will yet arise,
As if flesh shared a kindred with God,
In death,
and life.

Goodbye

Sometimes the presence,
In quiet voice,
In mystic song,
Will gently convince,
A gentle breeze,
A tranquil ghost,
The sweetness of incense.

Sometimes the numinous,
Like thunderclap,
Like avalanche,
Will openly discuss,
A blazing light,
The shaking soil,
The truth can be as thus.

Sometimes there is a Type,
That shatters glass,
That peels the skin,
And such will take a swipe,
Not suffering fools,
No nods to lies,
But every tear will wipe.

Sometimes there is a man,
That breaks the mold,
That loves his Lord,
And makes a loyal stand,
With healing words,
With stinging salve,
Yet he seeks to understand.

Sometimes there is a friend,
A soul-mate to one,
A father to two,
The life that he did spend,
Painfully brief,
Fully poured out,
A parable that will portend,

The way,
The truth,
The life,
The love,
The greatest of these is love.

Goodbye Bob,
Until.

Gone

Another breath dissipates,
Mere cloud wisped by wind,
But for the piece of soul,
And the taste of chagrin,
Respired to the universe,
As dust blows from skin,
And is lost.

Another trace of time,
Like the river slips away,
And yet is ever present,
A ghost having its sway.
But for the loss of self,
Through story and decay,
'Tis the cost.

And what has moved to tears,
From neural paths will fade,
The stuff, the warp and weave,
Which in sacred space — afraid,
That what fires time and space,
Being too terrible to evade,
It will accost.

All these fragments of self,
The stuff that makes us we,
Like tears within a bottle,
Are held back from the sea,
Retold, is the narration,
As love wills to foresee,
The utmost.

Homage,
Tremble,
Peace.