PATIENCE IS A CIRCULAR PATTERN WITHOUT REASON
* * *
When approaching meaning
One needn't fear its translucence
Nor wonder at its vacuity.
That it crumbles to dust as we touch it
Is of little consequence.
* * *
Meaning is believing
And believing makes it so!
* * *
Why must the grasshopper
Remind me?
I am free!
* * *
The spines of the desert
Are cruel
But not so cruel as
Splintered glass.
* * *
AN ENORMOUS MIND IS AN ENORMOUS EVIL
* * *
Two bare haunches
Exposed
Too close to the fire
Vibrating larynx
Articulate mandible
Formless brainstuff
Senseless antiphony
A serenade of the moon
* * *
The mind sings
Unknowing
Unheard
Silent in the voiceless wind.
* * *
A poem
Codified beauty
No more intelligible
Than a cricket's song.
* * *
Suspecting an ideal
Plato went mad.
* * *
Words are crystals of experience
The silent vibrations of hearing
The blind translucence of seeing
The mindless presence of being
* * *
Words bending to the
Poet's Will
Iron to the Blacksmith's
Forge.
Two tired men under a
Chestnut tree.
* * *
Wet out of the chrysalis
Warm winter sun
Fear evaporates into crystal
Perhaps I shall wait
And think for awhile
Then
Fly to Asia!
* * *
The poet creates
words out of feelings
And indescribable feelings
out of words.
* * *
Sometimes
As I perceive the world
I am startled
My hand seems so human!
* * *
Parachuting head-first
Through the cervix
At midnight.
Yelling
Ge-Ron-I-Mo!!!
* * *
The phallus speaks
denying abstractions.
* * *
The living cry
Desiring life.
Why are the Dead silent?
* * *
Four days in the sanitarium
Waiting for the sanity which will never come.
* * *
Even he who fights for freedom
Must remember the tyranny
Of the grave.
* * *
The most supreme act of surrealism is suicide.
An exercise in counterpoint
Blood and blade
Disturbing distorted silence.
* * *
Man forgot Nature
Committed Incest
Within his Mind
Divorced Thought
From Feeling
Denied being Human
Became Beast.
* * *
If there were only silent darkness
There would still be hope.
If only one person
There would be light.
* * *
If an idea has no mass,
Then
An infinitely small mind
May be infinitely large,
Therefore...
Beware the ant.
* * *
The teacher is herself a mother
A patroness of love
Alone among ageless children.
* * *
Agasp
I turned my eye aside.
The mind assaulted.
The body denied motion.
The poles strung with wire.
More plentiful than trees.
* * *
Why must the towel
Absorb the responsibility
of wet men?
* * *
When thought is cold
and icy hard
It is true until shattered.
* * *
Dark silent damnation
Cruel is the green light
Of intellect
Turned to darkness.
* * *
MIND ARE THE RINGS BEFORE ULYSSES' SHAFT
* * *
I am
And can only imagine
Loneliness
Therefore
I commend my heart
To Darkness
Where I shall find
All the comforts of
Dissolution
And experience the purity
Known only to
forgotten bones.
* * *
It's all there
and it's insanely funny
RJS Trip I
* * *
Images on a mental landscape
A silhouette against the primordial blackness of forever.
* * *
There is nothing profound which is not both simple and obvious.
* * *
We create poetry to displace chaos.
* * *
To worship life is to worship God,
To respect life is to respect God,
To love life is to love God,
To live is to be God.
* * *
Time is a self-consuming vacuum.
* * *
At the very heart of chaos
Is a lonesome mind.
* * *
At the very heart of chaos
Is a lonesome mind.
* * *
As Jesus spoke upon the mountain
Disturbing silence
So the poet sings
Nature moves
Shaking the universe
With his simplicity.
* * *
Silence absorbs conception
Darkness
Infinity
Eternity
Surging unknowledge.
* * *
I cannot hear poetry
my mind will not let me.
* * *
Poetry incites the sense from within
Occurring at night
Disturbing sleep.
* * *
Between every sound there is silence
And the breath that is filling the room.
* * *
Where the nerves cramp in death
At the soul's perimeter
Dark conquers sound
Subsuming alike each clanging infinity.
The rank Gods applaud
That most pleasing struggle
The victor is known
But the victory in no way predictable.
* * *
I do not know which
To prefer
Or how
To prefer
But I prefer...
* * *
Some humans are better storytellers
Than poets
Or better thermometers.
* * *
The poet radiates
Love
Of God
And Man
And Poetry
To generate
The light
By which other poets see.
* * *
The poet
Reading
Is an ephemeral
Apparition
Who knows
That souls can
Be made to migrate
As ripples across
Some pensive
Calm and waiting
Haze of consciousness
At the subtle
Or violent
Caress
Of their most sensual
Mentalities.
* * *
To love
Is to feel
The unconsciousness
Of life's unknowing.
* * *
A Sage
Is a man
Beyond whom
One cannot see.
* * *
I love you
Because life is imperfect.
This is not a philosophical reason.
* * *
Excellence is an extra-sensory quality
Rarely evident in things.
* * *
The mind
Is a psychic egg
Distorted
Ready to crumble.
* * *
The only sure reward of hard work
Is exhaustion.
* * *
The blood wound
And the anguish
I sustained---
The disappointment
In your eyes
I could not survive.
* * *
The freedom I anticipate
Is an uncertain future.
* * *
Playing the game of Words
The Poet most often wins.
* * *
Who is this?
This Child of the Mind!
Observe him carefully,
For in sooth
If the hairs on his chin
Begin to grow
He shall become man.
* * *
Photography is a subtle art
And gentle
Tender momentary seductions
Emotion ensnared
In tranquil eternity.
The embrace of Eye and Thee.
One exercise of a Mind
Which in its singular fashion
Loves reality.
* * *
An artist
is one who
cannot believe
all that is beautiful
is not eternal.
* * *
The mottled colour
where the dried grass lives
is my favourite.
* * *
The volkswagen is a nag
The porsche is a bare-foot honeymoon.
* * *
You ask me why I write poetry.
I answer...
If the words are within
It is torment
If I forget them
I am very sad.
* * *
I have given you life
And also Death
Which is something more
I have held nothing back from you.
* * *
There seems no solution to Life
But Living
And no known Truth beyond
Life itself.
* * *
Observing the heavens
I celebrate this day
Not wishing to offend
The gods
Of whom
I am sure
You are a daughter.
* * *
The country must
Fracture as a mirror
Into fragments:
Stable islands of unity
Each with a poet
A carpenter
A violinist
And one wise man.
* * *
If things seem complex
Then your thinking about them
Was probably inappropriate.
* * *
I am no poet
I speak with less then
Universal Voice.
* * *
In dying
Pound filled the vortex.
* * *
America is Red
and therefore
Poetry is unprovable.
* * *
A poem is a recognition
And a justification
Of a recognition.
* * *
Poetry in a coffin
Buried alive,
Or simply shared.
* * *
If I could only
Free my mind
From my body
I could play the piano.
* * *
In confronting
The Order of nature
Man
Transcended
Explored
Discovered
Solitude.
* * *
A poet is a man
With a capacity
For falling in love
With every day.
* * *
Imagine a poem...
Like the voice of Winter.
* * *
Climbed we the mountain
Atlas and the world
Beneath us––
Ourselves
Shouldering the sun.
* * *
Never mistake brightness
Or cleverness
For wisdom.
* * *
Verbs Are Important Because They Animate The Mind
* * *
Alone
Reclining on the earth's bed rock
I realize how soft a woman can be.
* * *
When the sun shines obliquely
And the green grass absorbs my soul...
I like to be simply muscular.
* * *
I am sure that things are as they are
But the reason I fear
Is of different matter.
* * *
Best Assured in love
Or in violent despair exhausted.
* * *
Writing is a specifically ordered
Trembling of the hands.
* * *
If you have come here to learn
You have heard the mountain speak.
* * *
I am not inspired by commands.
Ask me a question.
* * *
To be masculine
To be feminine
You don't even need
to own one thing!
* * *
If not a Christmas poem,
At least some poems
for Christmas.
* * *
For all the pain and suffering
in this world--
Women seem as beautiful
as ever.
* * *
A strand of grey age
In a mass of brown denial.
A shiver of fear,
A lasting kiss of frost.
* * *
Poets use words
to overcome
The invisibility
of the heart.
* * *
I have nothing
to give to others
Unless I say ‘yes’
to myself.
* * *
You can search
High and low and
For a long time
But you will never find another
Such as he.
* * *
Psychotherapy is a vocation
of second chances.
* * *
Accounting is
like having a permanent head cold
for a profession.
* * *
In the scale of history,
Talent and energy are inevitably crushed in the
Grist of probability.
Most of the Michelangelos ever born
Were run over by ox carts as children––
Never touching the wooden mallet or the
Steel chisel, and glimpsing fine
Italian marble
Only in paradise.
* * *
If clothes do make the man
They celebrate the woman.
* * *
The rituals of life are within us
And we practice them faithfully
Like over-sized marionettes
With every heartbeat.
* * *