It Is How I Saw It

as if on cue

a burgeoning petal 

fell

coming to rest

on the pavement
in front of me,

i couldn’t be sure

if it was

some kind of clue

pointing the eyes

toward

the hour’s

hidden verse,

toward a poetry

known to reveal

insignificant things –

tiny incidents

whose presence

lay hidden

somewhere between

heaven and earth,

where a silence

other than my own

prevails

and then 

a shift 

in prosody

as the tiny petal

is excitedly swept up

by an unsuspected

gust of wind

that heaves it

without turn

or curve

down the street –

immediately

the petal

and its beautiful form

becomes

but a vanishing

point,

circling

off in the distance,

it was all i

could distinguish –

these eyes

with their tentative

enthusiasm

could not

catch up with it –

its disappearance

generating

an impression

of an ending

until

the daybreak

of yet another hour

shifts toward

that alluring apogee

of light

becoming

all one needs

at that point 

in time

as one’s attention

resonates

with something

genuinely sensed

inside,

something

particular

but hard to name

like a poetry

that pries open

small windows

of unacknowledged 

thought,

and whose voice

stirs one’s curiosity,

registering

its existence

by the

conclusions

the mind,

that moment ago,

laid hands on.

It Was The Rarest Of Days

Lent to me, the general at-oneness

originating in uncomplicated things.

After being away, it returned.

It found me again – a hesitation.

And with it, the eyes walk and walk,

finding passage in-between every second.

And then they turn, and turn until

something resonates within, grazed by new light.

And then, always the desire to write

what is there as the picture patiently develops.

In the comfortable air, what I saw –

a naturalness, for instance, could be its name.

A Moment's Pleasure

As simple

as simple comes.

Everything glorious

holds its light.

Let it sit

for a brief period

of time – ageless

in its stillness.

For All That It Was

Collapsed, unconscious and calm.

Detached and alone in the perfect light.

Concealed from the tireless crowd.

. . . . .

The contemplative eyes, having studied it on bended knee, 

find an outlet in the tranquility of its stance, in its delicate lines.

Its tender colour – rich and alive and so ardently venerated.


. . . . .


Yet further on, details of its recovery cannot be envisioned.

As If By Plan

An import,

its plumage twirling –

clumps and strands

of something.

. . . . .

Then it was,

she thought,

finished.

. . . . .

It is

all there was.

The Aurora Of Mind

a temporary language

            as temporary things

            and poetry the

                              math…of

                                  everyday

                                     life

                                                             what time

                          Of the day is it

– Larry Eigner

Colouring The Midnight Air

It begins with a steady impulse

to want to speak something 

of the indelible influences 

linked to and hedged in against

the structure or the nature of things, 

even though the things we believe 

we see objectively may not 

necessarily be the things we are

immanently conscious of.

Eleven Fifteen AM

A louder voice

breaks its silence,

casts its shaded light

quietly outside –

somewhere where

it is 11:15 am,
voices carry.