For me, there is no doubt that true beauty is found in a glimpse of the soul: sometimes passionately stirring emotion, sometimes with a sense of quiet stillness, but always for me, for reasons I don’t fully understand, there is a touch of sadness in this glimpse. There is something far beyond distilled truth or moral lesson; I pity the man who rejects the boundless, who in turn is truth-seeking-mad beyond poetic redemption, for he’ll never find what he seeks, for the essence of man is beyond simple calculating comprehension. And, if it is true that the immortal spirit of man is made of “higher stuff,” then surely this stuff is something beautiful; and this is what I aim to write about: glimpses of the higher found in the sounds, scents, and colors of the world in which I exist.

However, just as a lotus flower shimmers in the lake of stillness, or the solitary oak sways amidst the field of barley, there is something more than just a simple description of these sounds, scents, and colors. There needs to be a deeper glimpse – a glimpse of something unquenchable, unattainable, a glimpse of the something that draws a moth to a flame and stirs my hunger to touch what is beyond. Therefore, it is my belief that this should be my goal, the poet’s goal: to give a glimpse of the sublime that is found there beyond. And to this end, the themes I choose are as varied as existence itself, for what is far more important than limitation is receptiveness to insight. A dream may lead to the deeper secrets beyond the veil of the ordinary far exceeding what can be found in countless days of contemplation, for experience has taught me, that in being receptive to intuition, one may transcend the commonplace.

The Razor’s Edge

To search the world for all
in vain for a dream’s distant sign,
and find not hope in the morning,
but a broken cloud of rain
pouring dark and meaningless:
no beacon in that cold,
no heart to hold inside,
no soul to know what lies beyond

the wind that shakes the trees
twisting the razor’s edge.

No reason,
no direction,
nothing clear
or sanctified,
nothing left for mind to see,

for all that was once was
now is gone to eternal void.
Weaving endless,
in every place the cutting wind
turning, twisting,
the razor’s edge spinning designs.
Yet, beyond the dreams and signs,
the empty secret remains;
it cannot find in broken clouds
the glow for those who know beyond

the wind that shakes the trees
and cuts with razor’s edge.

Bluebird Windows
     in trochaic hexameter

Rapping outside my mind’s window, raven I thought,
but a bluebird had come tapping windows of dreams,
dreams of forward waking backward, asking answers,
leaving questions, yesterday tomorrow tonight. 

“I’m here,” sang she, “open windows dreaming to make,
“wake up sleeping, wake up dreaming window wake up,
inside making outside coming inside begin
with this Monday dream on Sunday, taking tonight.”

So through bluebird opened windows dreaming I went
where the blackbirds and canaries whisper secrets
to the swans of moving windows gliding slowly
in the soft drone of a bluebird humming her song.

Out through bluebird windows, in through murmuring dreams
Sunday swans’ come Monday, bluebirds’ singing her song.

Diaphanous Thoughts
     in trochaic pentameter rhyme

Of the fatal hands that grapple the bond,
of the mysteries that shimmer
where dim angelic atmospheres respond
to breaths parting moments dimmer,

then in essence heaven upward appear,
eternal triumph taking flight
far above the earthly dimming sphere
in exultant crystal perfect light.

Yet, to reach where translucent thoughts abound
wisdom, happiness, which mortal
weave celestial texture into profound
thoughts that shimmer through the portal,

giving clarity in an instant come
in glimmers of serenities
present at the moment extended from
heaven’s perfect eternities.

The Myth of Psyche and Eros

One day as she sat upon her Olympic throne,
The anger of the goddess Aphrodite was shown.
It seems there was a maiden, whose name was Psyche,
Whose beauty had inspired jealousy in Aphrodite.
So, she called upon her son Eros, himself a god above,
To shoot Psyche with his poisoned arrow of love.
“Aphrodite,” asked Eros, “What secret plot do you keep?
Why shoot Psyche with an arrow while she is asleep?”
“When she wakes up,” replied the jealous Aphrodite,
I’ll give Psyche someone to love for eternity!
I might give her a dwarf, or a monkey, or an ass;
I might even give her a snake in the grass.
I mean to be cruel! Now Eros go away!
Shoot Psyche with your arrow; your mother you obey!”

When Eros was there next to the sleeping Psyche,
He gazed upon her and was enchanted by her beauty.
Then he quickly took out an arrow before she woke,
But Psyche opened her eyes causing Eros to poke
Accidentally himself with his arrow of love,
And then suddenly, as he looked upon her from above,
He saw her true beauty – there – as his heart unfurled.
And so, Eros loved Psyche more than anything in the world.

Then sick with love, back to Olympus Eros flew;
His mother Aphrodite would be angry he knew.
Aphrodite was furious, her wrath he could not elude,
And then the most terrible fight in the world ensued.
Eros left Olympus suffering from a heart that was love-sick,
And he vowed no man or animal should his arrows of love again ever prick.
While Eros suffered, no one fell in love, and the earth began to wither,
And Aphrodite, losing her beauty, summoned Eros hither.
“What is it you wish Eros?  You must have your way,
Bring love back into the world, please Eros bring it back today.”
“I love Psyche, and I want her for my wife,” Eros replied.
Aphrodite said, “I grant you your wish, Psyche shall be your bride.”

So, Zephyr, the west wind, carried to Eros his love Psyche,
But due to his godly nature, his body she could not see.
Then one day Psyche’s jealous sisters came to pay her a visit.
They said, “Is Eros your husband, or is he a monster…which is it?”
Psyche became curious and brought a candle to their heavenly bed.
She had decided she must know: is he husband or monster instead?
And when Psyche looked upon Eros in the candle light as he slept,
She realized the god of love was the heart that she kept.
In shock, she let wax from the candle drip upon his arm,
And then Eros awoke suddenly from his dreams with alarm.
“Yes, I am love itself,” said he, “and I can’t live anywhere I’m not believed.”
So, Eros left Psyche, leaving his true love lonely and bereaved.

But eventually, Eros forgave Psyche for her disbelief,
And he invited her back to him to both of their relief.
Then Eros did something wonderful because of his love;
He made Psyche immortal with the help of the gods above.
Now, Psyche is the goddess of the soul with butterfly wings,
And forever she dances around the candle of love that Eros brings.

Dreamers

Dreamers sitting together in the field, among
clasping hands, facing each other, in the clover,
like poppies hollow at first, their flesh forms
glowing in patterns, where once was only thought,
words become lines by which they have measured,
which becomes them. Warm winds blow softly
through petals and stems, through translucent bodies,
their lips forming sighs that are not lost forever,
remaining in time, they embrace under stars,
sighing heart-whispers for love, as if living
in a dream now and forever continuing in time.
And now silence in that field among the poppies,
where the breath of distant lovers echoes
the whispers that float over the horizon leaving
the feeling of the dreamers hovering in light
for those who come to feel them, knowing within all
the sensations, the memories floating in dreams
of lovers, embracing in the moments of forever
among the dreams of poppies, vibrating translucent
together in the clasping hands of the light.

Of Stones on Lonely Shore

I wandered on a distant shore
            As if within a dream:
A man appeared who walked on by
            To fade the things that seem.
I turned with mind to questioned him,
            “Come, tell me how to live?”
But his words my ears could hear no more
            What asking failed to give.

I looked to see from where he came,
            For footprints in the sand,
But saw no sign in grains of thought
            To hold within my hand.
So, cast into that stormy sea
            In hopes to understand
The waves that crashed upon the shore
            And washed away the land.

And I was thinking of the days
            And seas I’ve drifted in,
In search of answers, in hope to find
            And to remember then.
The words I heard, but heard no more,
            In waves, of dreams, of when
I heard him say the way to live
            Upon those shores again.

In twisting thoughts of blowing sand
            Of ending all those days,
I walked away from drifting shores
            And all my winding ways
To climb a mountain peak to see
            And look with dreamy gaze
The burn within the setting sun
            That sets the seas ablaze.

And I was thinking of a plan
            To go without restraint,
And with the colors of the sun
            The stormy shores to paint
In twisting flames of red and blue,
            In fire without complaint,
To light the seas and melt the skies,
            And burn with Elmo’s saint.

And from the mountain soul that rolled
            Into the setting light,
The shadows cast upon the seas
            Into the dreams of night.
I saw the ships of purest gold
            Sold within my sight,
And tarnished silver in the clouds
            Of hard rain’s bitter blight.   

Then Augustine and martyrs seen
            I heard in whispered prayer,
To roll the stones into the depths
            In seas of deep despair;
To take away their dreams, it seems,
            With hard rain falling there,
And steal the gold from stones they sold
            From clouds that float in air.

I saw it then, my fingers reached,
            The glass I touched was mine;
It opened red, and burning bled
            The cup that spilled the wine
There on the shore and mountain top
            The meaning of design
In cracks of glass my fingers touched
            And traced in every line.

And now, by chance, ever I climb
            Again, that mountain more,
Or look to see within the drops
            Of that hard raining pour,
Or listen to the sounds of words
            In rolling waves of roar,
In seas I touch the thoughts and dreams
            Of stones on lonely shore.