Its Intimate Script, Exponentially More Complex

There, where all is order,

an expanded appreciation

for its self-representation.

Honour The Budding Human Heart, The Soul

A house for wisdom; a field for revelation.

Speak to the stones, and the stars answer.

At first the visible obscures:

Go where light is.

Theodore Roethke, “Unfold! Unfold!”

At The Moment Of Composition

What is one to make of a piece of thought left hanging in empty solitude

when one's conception of things appears to be notoriously difficult?

After This, Clouds Break Into Laughter

Scraps of paper provide

a backdrop, a kind of setting.

Shape, voice and text

occupy a certain position.

Its overall composition

lay bare here in the open air.

Rich, Its Anthology: Silence

Everything in life is speaking in spite of it's apparent silence.

~ Hazrat Inayat Khan

Half Hidden from The Eye

Under An Attentive Glaze Of Paint

Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

Connecting Us To Larger Worlds

Silence is like a cradle holding our endeavors and our will; a silent spaciousness sustains us in our work and at the same time connects us to larger worlds that, in the busyness of our daily struggle to achieve, we have not yet investigated. Silence is the soul's break for freedom.

~ David Whyte

To See Through Its Eyes A Veritable World

It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.

~ Wallace Stevens

. . . . .

They admire the lines, and the birds too,

seated here below the cerulean blue, where the ink

flows quiet and black, today especially.

. . . . .

Poetry knows things  no one else knows for sure.

Loosening Into An Illimitable State Of Bliss

In a single breath particles of dandelion dust loosen.

Shyly but with desire, its soft and tenuous symmetry gives way.

In a sweet unrest everything becomes light, light, light…

*    *    *    *    *

Presently, an airy touch of simplicity

spirals heavenward into a metamorphosing sky.

The Hours Do Not Exist

Ever restless, ants wander paths

time-worn come the darkness.

Abandoning the shade of a stone,

the tree becomes a mountain

on which they toil – oblivious

to the tenderness of the moment.

Exhausted, Just Reading It

Composed in an altered kind of code,

in an arrangement of disarray –

everything in its own way, revealed.

To Form An Alliance With Its Ambulatory Will

The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be 

at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense his life…The beautiful vagabonds, 

endowed with every grace, masters of all climes, and knowing no bounds – 

how many human aspirations are realized in their free, holiday-lives – 

and how many suggestions to the poet in their flight and song!

~ John Burroughs

Pressing On, In Silence

Housed in the larger room outside the door, lifeless they sit. On the surface they are deemed unreadable, and in the rounding of their character, their anonymity is revealed by means of a mute collective language. Without breath, quite willingly they rise, relinquishing their faceless bodies to the burn of the sun. At night they unconsciously mingle with the elevated moon while a hawkish wind covertly explores their nakedness. As if by design, solitude for them, comes quite naturally. Only a few eyes, enticed by their whisper, give notice to the details of their introverted tendencies, which enables a slight distinction of one from the other. Cemented to time, we have no idea what they suffer through, yet their hardened heart, with its internalized core of steeliness, offers their character some semblance of weight. By morning, unable to work off an invigorating sense of renewed energy, they keep watch on the horizon, anxious to see how the day will unfold. Quietly they adjust to the hours with a keen understanding of the importance found in ordinary things – especially those that press on into the light.

I Tried To Catch It As It Fell

The darkness – opening in the shape of a poem

there in his room papered in song that speaks 

 of a life and a mind still whet with words.

. . . . .

Pausing at a window's edge,

we eye, at will, his heart and soul

lit up by old and amorous ideas.

Flecks of wisdom built upon

yesterday's unresolved derivatives

are offered as strands of prayer –

an incandescent language that

deeply engages the body, the soul.

We probe its darkness for signs,

knowing whoever wants in –

in praise of its beautiful mystery,

will get in, to embrace his dark,

habitually punctuated by light. 

. . . . .

I used to love the rainbow

And I used to love the view

I love the early morning

I pretend that it was new

But I caught the darkness

And I got it worse than you

I caught the darkness

I caught the darkness

It was drinking from your cup

I said is this contagious?

You said "Just drink it up"

~ Leonard Cohen 

(Lines from Darkness/Old Ideas)

Into The Silence A Brave Voice Blossomed

What was most affecting

in the moment became a catalyst

to the hours succeeding it.

Its Quiet Certainty, A Gift

A link of coincidences

hauled into consciousness

the engaging presence of a butterfly

caught swinging on its hinges –

its movement swift and purposeful,

alight with a radiant grace.

. . . . .

swirling…contending…teasing…tantalizing

. . . . .

Untouched by anything familiar, its glorious mystery of colour – agape with excitement, is carved so well into its nature where the textures of its previous life lay so well hidden from the vision it reveals. In its homelessness, adventurously it drifts midst the world it inhabits – greeting light, meeting shadow.

Pressed now to the wall, its unquiet eyes are frozen permanently to this still air. Most admirable is its composure, having been stripped of everything but its colour. There's a renewed appreciation for its balanced stillness that offers a touch of ambient distraction toward somebody else's consideration.


In the midst of this silence, a life – at peace in the breeze of its passing, is cast. Colours real enough to withstand the circumstance of nothing going on, create still, an art out of this newly rendered form embedded here forever in this unearthly ending place.

. . . . .

I've watched you now a full half-hour; 


Self-poised upon that yellow flower 


And, little Butterfly! indeed 


I know not if you sleep or feed. 


How motionless!--not frozen seas 


More motionless! and then 


What joy awaits you, when the breeze 


Hath found you out among the trees, 


And calls you forth again! 



~ William Wordsworth

Finding Momentarily, A Humble Voice

Passing through, she almost turned a blind eye

to a face silently poised in a state of half-absence.

. . . . .

Heaving a deep and heavy sigh, the stranger turns his gaze

to the unending resistless expanse of a burning blue sky.

Scattered, here and there, the still points of a past returned.

Tucked inside his thoughts, his mood loosens – the salt, 

the water begins to flow as an ageless, changeless memory

dislodges in full disclosure, intimately caressing his spirit

as it continues its drift through the air into the light of song.

. . . . .

sorrow    –    tears    –    silence    –    song

. . . . .

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSJZiFcVT7c

One Two One Two

The World Is Round

Close your eyes and count one two

open your eyes and count one two 

and then green would not be blue. 

So Rose began counting one two one two 

and she knew that she was counting one two one two 

and so her eyes were blue although her name was Rose. 

Of course her eyes were blue 

even though her name was Rose. 

That is the reason she always did prefer blue 

because her eyes were blue. 

And she had two eyes and each one 

of her two eyes was blue, one two one two.

~ from Gertrude Stein’s children’s book, The World Is Round

In The Present, Above Time

Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; 

in the full-blown flower there is no more; 

in the leafless root there is no less. 

Its nature is satisfied and it satisfies 

nature in all moments alike. 

There is no time to it. 

But man postpones or remembers; 

he does not live in the present, 

but with reverted eye laments the past, 

or, heedless of the riches that surround him, 

stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. 

He cannot be happy and strong until he too 

lives with the nature in the present, above time.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays

Something Embedded There

Individual attention courted the eye as it tried to intercept, out of curiosity, 

something elusive held in the still, rich red colour of a frame – accepting that it cannot 

see everything contained in the underlying nature of all that lay hidden. 

Consequently, You Overhear Fragments Of…

Memories of childhood skip inside the mind –

images chock-full of simplicity, life and eagerness.

Having been sent out to play, a couple of profound dimples

blissfully tattoo themselves high atop one's rosy cheeks.

Reflection kindles kindly a myriad of painted dreams

constantly sprouting from what the mind knows.

. . . . .

Realizing how fortunate we are, it's touching isn't it, the way we can look back 
on childhood and perceive yet again, brief particles of what the eyes saw.

Unsuspecting, One's Encounters

Once weightless and as invisible as the air, in a single heave, a shell, fashioned like a pair of fragile butterfly wings, is jostled forward toward the shore. Immured in the wet sand, the shell's disposition appears as silent and as equable as a stone at ease in its known jurisdiction. In the background, aggrieved waves impatiently peak before crashing down and breaking free. The chaos of the ocean's movement is indifferent to the stillness found in everything being pushed ashore, braking to a stop.