Echoes of the Unsaid


A universe’s heart and edge
Move apart at the speed of time
In an endless solitary journey

The lonely center
Pulses outward, outward

Sending yearning needs
Focused by a knotted vacuum
Towards a too distant past

Always curving
But never crossing
Its Möbius boundary

Endlessly straining to listen for
An answer from beyond
And to respond in turn

But silence
Is what remains after the sound fades away
And one still listens, listens

For a message
That can never be heard
Beyond the expanding unity

Of the one
Craving another
On the shadow side

The lonely center
Pulses outward, outward

Forever, sadly,
Hearing only
The echoes of the unsaid

Four Friends


My leaves are dropping after the Summer solstice
I’m hungry
The Sun was too generous with his gifts
I had no place to put them
No way to take them
No way to thank him

My roots are shriveling after the Fall solstice
I’m thirsty
The Earth had blown her topsoil away
Left me alone with my dreams
No way to ask her
No way to tell her

My bark is falling after the Winter solstice
I’m cold
The Moon visited sometimes
Other times it was dark and I had no dreams
No way to wave at it
No way to love it

My branches are breaking after the Spring solstice
I’m dying
The Farmer looked at me each day
I gave him many apples since he was a seedling
No way to feed him
No way to touch him

The Poet


The poet waits for an inspiration

Thunder as word sounds crash into each other
Lightning as rubbing visions causes sparks and ignition
Earthquakes shift bedrock perceptions
Volcanoes spew understanding too hot to ignore

Time stands still as the process unfolds
Until the last words are recorded
And the brow is wiped dry
   so that time resumes

     drink some juice

     walk to get a bag of groceries

The poet sits, pen in hand
Two or three images in mind
Flowing, mixing, ending here, starting there
How might it connect?
Not a puzzle, more than telling a story

Experiences accelerating and intertwining in the imagination
   create a world that never was, but that could have been

Ideas collide
Emotions friction and flow
Straightening edges, untying knots, perfecting the shape of thought

The poet’s hand paints the ink onto paper
Oil marks on dried wood pulp scored with lines that do not guide
Letters written at odd angles compose words ripped from an arm’s muscles
   driven by a brain telling a tale to friends and strangers

The poet compresses the core of reality
   to focus the energies of creation onto a single point

And then,
   from almost nothing,

A new universe inflates with power that cannot be measured by physics

Allowing deep understanding for all who reach in to
   touch the pure annealed crystal of a poem reading

      the experience of which catalyzes our souls,

         so as to change them,


Broken Circles

The sounds carried across the valleys
Infinite silence followed
Left,     right,     left,     right
Rippling the emptiness

Dark quiet disturbs the sleep

Black sky, cloudless night
Eyes closed
Heart ripped
Midnight silent rage
Hands clenched, turn over

There are so many lonely stars up just beyond reach

We need to dull the sharp angles
Gather around
Neighbors and friends
Open our hands
Silently share sorrow

We need to mend the broken circles

Fix the church roof
Dig a community well
Remove the stumbling blocks
Bake loaves of bread
Reach out

We are a village

Slowly, slowly
Roots grow down
Supporting our weight
Drink in the rain
Drink in the dew

The hours pass

Slowly, slowly
Leaves grow up
Building a canopy
Drink in the Sun
Drink in the stars

The days pass



And again

And again