That soft feet can dance Across the hard-packed loam of my heart The Sun's gentle rays can reach Through the thickets, all the way down, Roots can reach deep endocrine currents, Beauty can touch recesses of my being, Is life-giving love.
As I look for empty pages Leafing through a notebook There are ornate diary entries Scribbled notes Grocery Equations and vocabulary And the pages at the back torn off By the Muse holding on for her life
The chiselled sandstone ledges of the old bell tower Have been freed of their anti bird spikes And, piled with straw and moss, Await the pigeon's return to their roosts In a gesture of vacant fluttering invitation.
A person prays for some relief, but to no avail, All seems hopeless, no escape and then one drop of nectar changes it all. A cruel trick to create something so beautiful and something so terrible. Are these the two poles poets & seers have spoken of? Must we swing 'twixt the two?
A nighttime alley full of silent cars before me Behind, the rain-wet courtyard fragrant with urine White plastic tarps heave and billow to my left Droning chimes ring to my right, a wind-swept scaffolding All around, the streetlights flare And afterimages stand like tags and graffiti inside my eyelids.
As the Sun rises thru the trees in the garden, I see starlings galore nipping at the coconuts. Other birds also visit sharing such excitement. An elegant site as the day starts to create itself. Indeed, my observation & feeling such an event is part of the day's creation.