Dry, so dry
you
do not believe the earth pulsates and it is called life
here
right here where I stand
upon a trampoline net, a web of vibration lifting us
in a coil
through space
My roof
the neural fibers woven together like the fingers
of a child
a dwelling place beneath in which love
may circle hand in hand with death
and life as well
compose its neighborhoods and fertile places
streaming with the complexities
of the human condition
My religion
the autumn leaf rejoined
by others in their dance in air
to come to rest so gently on the silent walkway
The hum of transcendence in a droplet of water,
of the transmissions through cables of our daily talk,
joy falling into sadness, rising back into joy,
life which lifts, beating down transient complaint
Dry, so dry
you in your own hands
guarded in your approach
always wanting proof
while the real magic
ephemeral, walks through the corner of your eye
hears in near silent whispering
what cannot be believed
unless this world is spinning....not just through space
but a tale which pulls down questions
as if they were the stars
Author Bio:
I am now 68. I published a lot when I was young - teens and early twenties. I'd like to see several full-length books published in my lifetime. I work hard at my poems, am prolific, imaginative, and totally in opposition to the current path of society's self-destruction through violence and greed.
you
do not believe the earth pulsates and it is called life
here
right here where I stand
upon a trampoline net, a web of vibration lifting us
in a coil
through space
My roof
the neural fibers woven together like the fingers
of a child
a dwelling place beneath in which love
may circle hand in hand with death
and life as well
compose its neighborhoods and fertile places
streaming with the complexities
of the human condition
My religion
the autumn leaf rejoined
by others in their dance in air
to come to rest so gently on the silent walkway
The hum of transcendence in a droplet of water,
of the transmissions through cables of our daily talk,
joy falling into sadness, rising back into joy,
life which lifts, beating down transient complaint
Dry, so dry
you in your own hands
guarded in your approach
always wanting proof
while the real magic
ephemeral, walks through the corner of your eye
hears in near silent whispering
what cannot be believed
unless this world is spinning....not just through space
but a tale which pulls down questions
as if they were the stars
Author Bio:
I am now 68. I published a lot when I was young - teens and early twenties. I'd like to see several full-length books published in my lifetime. I work hard at my poems, am prolific, imaginative, and totally in opposition to the current path of society's self-destruction through violence and greed.
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