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Untitled



He stands

Mountainside

Folds out below

And to either side

Dark

Deep dark below

Dark above

Light where

He jumps

He spreads his arms

And jumps

The light unfolds before him

Trees in view

And grass

Soft green-gray grass

Soars he

Above it all

Bright

Bright above

Bright to either side

He walks

The street

Winds out

Ahead

The girls

Faceless nameless

Girls

Dark in front

Talking

Unheard words

He stands

The mountainside

Passes his eyes

Dark

Deep, deep darkness

Felt

Deeply felt

Yet unseen.



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One Or The Other



Bring death into your poem

Exalt not its coming

Likewise diminish not its importance.

Death should be just what it is,

The final stage of life

Brought on by the end of living

Not by the living.

Yet we have meted that end

For ages

And ages hence will feel our blows

For reasons we wrongly

Justify.

We should all be saddened

By the death of the one

And not the other.

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The Ride



All the way home on the bus

I sat across from a lady

Who never stopped smiling.

It was one of those nervous,

Thin eyed

Look around smiles.

I couldn't tell

If she was smiling

Because she was happy

Or embarrassed.

Perhaps she did something

To someone

The results of which

She'll learn tomorrow.

It almost made me

Catch myself in a smile.

My stop came

But she went on

Smiling.

What a happy person

I thought.

When I arrived home

My wife and I sat down

And she was smiling too.

I told her,

As she say across from me

Smiling,

About the lady.

Her smile turned to laughter,

The sort that produces tears.

What!

"Hon" she said, "please do me a favor.

The next time you ride the bus

Be sure you wear some underwear

And zip your zipper up."



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The Land Beside The River



The land beside the river

Like the river ever flows

Momentum upon momentum

Though its moving never shows.

The river lay upon the land

And to it ever brings

Hoping upon hoping

In the hope of never things.

The river moves beyond the land

And with it ever takes

Vision upon vision

When the vision never wakes.

To the land beside the river

The river ever sends

Moment upon moment

Though the moment never ends.



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In reply Mr. Whitman



Did he hear us singing, the varied carols I hear?

His mechanics, and hatters, boatmen and deckhands

His masons and shoemakers, ploughboys and woodcutters

His mothers, wives and young girls

All singing gaily of what was theirs.

I hear them singing, all carols I hear,

In voices proclaiming what is theirs and no other's

Singing loudly with open mouths no melodious song.



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What's Said



What shall be the translation of this life?

This one among the billions before it

This one before the countless more to follow.

What shall be said it said?

Will it announce or has it announced at all?

Will its Rosetta stone be ever hidden

Among the deeply piled fallen walls upon walls?

In all the misinterpretations shall it be known

That this life alone announced unto itself.



I have known so much and will know more

Will these leaves I lay upon the earth

Allow me to be known when I will no more?



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Untitled



'T is sad, the poet's words of love

But sadder still by far

Is that the world does give him cause

To write the words of war.



'T is sad her lover breaks her heart

And causes its beat to still

But sadder yet is the lament

Of no changing of the will.



The will that somehow finds the right

To justify the lie

That because of different views

The viewers must all die.



But even I am guilty of

Poetising crap

Because I am also human

And caught within the trap.



Of sadly writing words of love

When somewhere lay the char

Of viewpoints hating viewpoints

In saddened views of war.



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See





Your eyes look

Upon me

In disbelief

Yet linger

To find

The truth.

Search not what

They see

In me

But what is seen

When lids

Are closed.



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