something we cannot...

It is the needful heart
that finds art in darkness
without need of light, a power of sight
and unerring perception

words make sheer cover
the inner voice, ceaseless in life
assures outer self of inner truth
and resolves the eternal mystery

of existence, and not- for truly we know neither;
we accept what we cannot change.
The ways we speak is knowing,
and its silence is something we cannot

for within us is the constant fire
and it is we...the undeniable- we
that make the filament of the flame...

burn...

 

Like watching the sun

from afar it is peaceful, the near star

shows its gentle fire, and it makes us

a world in which warmth is in the air

From afar a long line slowly moving cars

follows the path thru solemn gates

there the long snaking trail pauses

we wait for the further moments

We have been here before

played this scene in pain-filled dreams

and awakened to worse...

it is like watching the sun

bright warm light- so calm steady

but inside, a hellish burn of ages

where fire melts into fire

We stand the ritual way

and say words of comfort and will

that the awful spill of his life will matter

more tomorrow and tomorrow again

inside...we burn, and the fire

takes no rest, now we are

the heart fires of the star...we burn.

http://allpoetry.com/poem/11629657-burn...-by-Peteskid

around its gravity...

Seen into the unseen, and shaped in tones
that do not fade, life is a mere shade
of the light of a greater sun.

Once begun, it is a gift from an indelible giver'
and though we must only know in faith,
the signs take us straight
on an ever-winding path.

Within each, the light of an inner star
birthed into the cold, temporary touching
a passing world, we learn much
but acquire little that can be kept.

So much as we disagree, time slips
elagantly without excuse, we lose
as we gain...yet we Love.
We hold in orbits around its gravity
a mass that pulls the willing, it is
Love that makes a purpose of life

We love the children, the joy we know,
unfolding seeds of the great tree of humanity
they all belong to all of us
and so they are precious... and so
they are Michael

cosmic implication

When love seeps in,
in powers like air into skin,
every equation of human reckoning
changes...a constant
with cosmic implication.

Intrinsic as breath, subtle and hidden
as a state of  trance, yet the heart dances
to rhythms of another drum, resonates
to the thrum of other strings
when love seeps in... and it christens the world.

As if the wet kiss of clouds to earth,
touching all things, an equality of grace;
you are the dew on morning rose.
When love seeps in, it enfolds the world
and then I see the sun...and the glistened rose

teacups...

in my teacup...
finding long lost words
sounds of falling rain



raised teacup
wisps of steam

pausing at the lip

words I wished
into your eyes


at the table...
a mute conversation
breath in a teacup

my evening teacup...
stirring in the sweetness
soft cicada song



* three  hokku and  one tanka*

you...

It is a simple word

three letters and an exhale

but suddenly it means more

than the passage of moments

suddenly, it is filled with you

Life can be a slow drive on a speeding highway

life can be like the feeling of falling

when you are near

I learn the fear of being apart

when we are apart, I learn

the meaning of an empty heart

because you fill pathways with light

You cause stars to sing to me,

and you have no real way to know-

though, I whisper softly-

the word becomes a roaring wave

It is a simple word

a simple bridge across a chasm of longing

to say you, and know it is ...you

a short menu...

time paints in vivid strokes
as if a canvas, memory accepts
the colors of given days and blends
like the bend of sun and world's end
where only our idea of God can accept
the gift of the petal's edge

Memory shreds the ordered flow
into places we wish to go, and things we would;
and should is a passport to the space between
the sides of the page, burrow like leaf miners
raise the surface till it breaks, obliterates the fates
that have fallen once.

It is the comings and goings that do not lie;
nor morph into more pleasing substance-
alive or not, in the end...it is a short menu
for such a learned palate, and such eclectic tastes...