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a constellatory chorus
A Constellatory Chorus
The Astronomer
I do not name stars—I record desire.
What you call Orion, I call recurrence.
Each pattern you trace is a gesture retold:
someone, somewhere, lifting a hand in longing.
The Architect
My blueprint hums with stellar grammar.
Windows echo nebulae, stairwells spin like spirals.
I do not build rooms; I invite orbit.
Every threshold is a doorway to gravity.
The Beloved
When I wore your breath like a scarf,
the sky folded around us.
I didn’t say I loved you.
I just let the moon finish my sentence.
The Child
I climbed a ladder once,
held a saucepan skyward,
and caught a piece of night
still warm from someone’s wish.
The Dying One
This body folds inward, yes—
but what spills out is filigree and firelight.
Call it soul, call it after-image—
it still wants to become sky.
The River
Your reflection is not yours alone.
It swims with galaxies, bonefish and stardust.
Even stillness ripples when someone looks with meaning.
The Voice Inside the Sky
You’ve always been here.
Every breath you released arranged itself into constellations.
You made me long before I learned your name.
.
.
Each member of the cosmic
Each member of the cosmic chorus, unique and yet one, sang with the expansive perspective, thundering realness and personal passion of themselves as well as the Source of all Creation.
Each voice was more mind-bending and gripping than the next and you culminated the symphony with an ethereal Love that cut deep . . . astonished me with raw Truth. The emotional aftermath was almost too beautiful to bear.
Bravo, maestro!
Thank you dear Patricia. I am
Thank you dear Patricia. I am most appreciative of these words, these thoughts that adorn the poetic process.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Rather than gush about
Rather than gush about the ABSOLUTE AND EXQUISITE VERBAL BEAUTY of this poem, I wll say, rather, this, which I am also going to leave as instructions to my family: if I am lucidly conscious at the hour of my death, I want this poem to be read to me as I get ready to soar out. If that cannot be done, I would like to have it read at my funeral . . . if you will give me permission in advance for that.
Starward-Led [in Chrismation, Januarius]
Of course, dear StarSpared;
Of course, dear StarSpared; who am I to deny such instructions. Let the poem do its work, the poet's work has already been done.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver