the best poems

 the best poems

have a purpose

well hidden

from the frontal lobe

a galaxy exposed

in the last few lines

mystery enshrined

in letter, rhyme

the heart -- ghost

in the machine

is the hand that parts

those clouds

that are dreams

bliss of union (my nephew's wedding)

 veiled kindnesses

from out of a hidden realm

friends and family I have never met

affirm my broken being

the dust that falls from the sculptures

I have chiseled these nearly sixty years

my deceased mother and father

join my gurus

sharing a meal at a table

where 12 disciples honor the bride

 

a young man

                    self-effacing, as the moon…

            takes her hand

the daring of love usurps the night

they dance on the rooftop in the rain

the bliss of union that is an ocean

and we, witnesses and guests

each a single drop

of the selfsame joy

Mr. ATL

wiry, old man, diminutive

with thick spectacles

shouts the specials at ATL

Atlanta airport food court, Section B

I am surprised to find him here

old friend, stately man, aged only a bit

in front of "Fresh Eats", salads and wraps

"Today is a great a day...a GREAT DAY!!"

7 years ago

he was in front of Paschal's chicken

daring us to try the mac and cheese

collard greens

on my way to Sarasota

this time, to visit my parents' grave

I am cheered to find him still at it

all Georgia hospitality, gentle resilience

single digits

on night's like this

ice pebbled on my car's windshield

shuffling to put on my gloves

brushing and scraping the glass

I am reminded that the extreme cold

is most beloved of my soul

I read once, composer John Adams

in New England, taking his dog for a walk

the wind chill, negative twenty

a cleansing and a meditation

a hard look within, dog hale and smiling

it's coming

can you feel it like you know it?

you read about it, heard it discussed

not the single digit weather

but the arrival of the ritual fires

burning the dross

cooking the bread

relinquishing the silver

from the dull ore

that has calcified around our hearts

that OCD guy

afire with compulsive prayer

hand brushes hair

every minute or so

an outward expression

of an inward obsession

a man twice-odd

fanatic for God

and the part I forgot

I'm sorry a lot

your song

your song cannot be silenced

it breathes, swimming in its own light

swirls, self-propelled, in a bubble of energy

a power that cannot diminish

born of its own accord

cannot have done otherwise

no song can be silenced

it IS because it must be

it is that it is

outlandish

do dogs have feelings? 

can they understand what we say?

in ways we might not imagine

 

does the wind have words?

are we remiss in not comprehending?

 

even a mountain communicates

when we stand in awe

it has inserted its grandeur

into our thoughts

 

is God in our temples, our churches, our hearts?

is Buddha in photons, and black holes, and quarks?

some things are too outlandish to conceive

the more outlandish

the more I tend to believe