POEMS

​

Posted 9/15/25

​

"We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." -T.S.Eliot

​

At The Ballet

 

Apotheosis of good,

Apocalypse.

 

Dual planes

curvatures and texture.

Lines cross blue,

Textures leave subliminal causeways

which rise unguarded

over the cerebral plane.

 

Everflowing garden of life

lifting to new heights

old dreams and aspirations

causing us to shiver in apprehension.

 

New arcs crisscross

on the way to outer reaches of clairvoyance

and never find the place where they began.

 

Solid planes veer tangentially

into utter darkness.

 

Wanderer,

lost and searching.

Discoverer,

lost and finding

the first shall be the last,

and that the one to save ourselves from

is ourselves.

Functioning on the periphery,

trying to find the center.

Trying to grasp, to touch,

to be at last in a place

where we can be all we hope to be.

​

Eyes

reaching, grasping, holding.

Dictating, seducing eyes

discontent with selfhood,

trying to arouse, engulf and destroy.

 

Unknowing eyes of a mind long dead

from disuses of life’s utter sensual decay.

 

All in fun is the reason.

All in fun,

for if such malice exists,

how can men and women survive?

 

Where is the light that used to guide them?

What makes eyes that seek to possess another’s soul?

In all except children.

 

In children is the light

which uncultivated and unmotivated

loses it’s individuality, loses it’s light,

and dies under the pressure

of the sea of humanity.

 

We start off well as children.

But even as children the process begins.

The vision dies.

Only vanity survives.

 

 

Canto # 2

 

Velvety folds of longing,

satisfaction attained.

 

Red hot flame in the heart of a jewel,

whose fire breathes light breathless.

 

The scent mirrors the source

held suspended in a spirit of giving.

 

Feeling, continuously born

and erroneously guided

but for the window of the soul.

 

Feeble perceptions in a continuous struggle

with the window of the soul.

 

The soul is the window

and the rock which cannot break the window,

nor be broken by it.

 

Perception’s gaze guides the sensual life.

The soul’s grace guides the spiritual.

Each enlightens or burdens the other.

 

 

Canto # 3

 

Fluidity, gushing, swimming, sparkling.

Lucidity sparkling, gushing, swimming.

Priorities, time’s streaming,

to stand unclouded in the aerie.

 

Parallax, perpendicular

Thorax, theremin

Teiresias, Theseus

Perseus, Persephone

 

Stop and Focus.

Contemplate, conceive.

 

​

Aspiration

 

The byways diverge and converge.

Thrusting up and out like causeways

in cities of glass and steel.

 

Diverge and converge.

Blue green pristine

coughing out marble thoughts

which are crinkled and thrown away.

 

​

Rhythm

 

Snap! Green! Crick-Crack!

Omnivorous cats creep in didactic awe.

The prism snaps and out comes black.

Swinging, swaying, lost, crushed and renewed again.

 

Jellyfish clouds swirl in all colored array.

Crick-Crack! Green! Black!

Lost, Lost, Lost in the writer’s sway.

 

Brazen women dance in a cloud of mushroom gas.

Out to play, to see, to swell

such madness as could never tell.

 

Crick-Crack! I’m coming back.

Oleo lobotomy, they cannot conceive

what tricks their eyes play

as the magician deceives.

 

Lost again and looking

up, up, up at the pantheon of good

and down to the abyss

of bottomless despair.

What games, what webs,

what sanctimonious fools.

 

Crick-Crack! Green! Black!

Crock, rock, lock your sock.

Elementary sidewalks scream

in old perfection’s decay.

 

Ride, ride, ride your symbol.

Cry, slide, weep, fall,

Rise and shout!

I am me;

unique, alive, ambivalent.

 

Crushed, unsatisfied.

Outward, outward, outward, Push!

Rush, mobilize, externalize and perceive.

​

Worthiness in aurora showers of illusion.

Coming, cornering, conceiving.

Idealizing, realizing

dismay and disarray.

 

The pot is over the rainbow

only for the dreamer.

The pot is on the stove

only for the realizer.

 

Idealize; realize

weary abstraction.

Unknown, lost in dark corners

of closets long in disuse.

 

Crick-Crack! I’m coming back.

 

​

Love

 

Weaving soft velvet focus;

soft in the breast that sighs.

 

Longing and receiving

the soft, the warm and the dark.

 

Melting and feeding;

feeding and melting.

Unspeakable delight.

​

 

Discovery

 

Shadowy mists fly

above tabernacles of stone.

Seeking, searching,

looking and not finding

until the thrill sends

explosions to your brain

which fall like dust to the ground.

Ground trodden in circles

of perspiration and blindness.

​

​​