the origin of birth

poetry_of_origin

 

If you tell a kid
that can’t remember being born,
you were born of your mother,
from your father’s seed
you come from a line of lovers
that started way back
before the instrument of love
when there was only form
forming flux and
the structure of diamonds
everywhere protruding
from the mystery
of dark pulsation.

 

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

Travel: Here, is the clamor.

sound_of_india

Here, is the clamor.
Totality crackling.
I gather every seed of noise
as grains of rice
inside my cupped hands.
A nomad hymn has travelled
as a fantastic bird
through an atmosphere of time.
Its reflection is a worn
anatomy of ripples:
moving slowly like a full
moon pulsating on a lake’s surface.
The song and the silence
have become animals
savagely wrestling for
a piece of creation. I’m
watching their pristine
movements from a land
where gods sit next to
man, woman and child;
where we all sit
rapt and perplexed
by the howl of the light
and the course of silence.
This is a land where even the gods
confess not knowing their origin;
much less the nest
from which the primal rhythm took flight.

Contemporary Poetry

Corner’s spiral

 

 

Come trace each spiral’s end

the emptiness of every word

fullness of rippling chords

wondering, strange wondering

                      those that once were

where has the smoke of their pipes

          traveled?

To them we were distant dream’s child

a rising vapor over their colossal deaths—

serene nocturnal sounds

Gathering ink droplets

      over prayer’s whisper

and the fall, rushing leap

bottom deep darkness into

deep immensity’s embrace

Violin growth of love

the stream naturally light

flight upon mountainous sleep

crossing threads of cycles and returning

Entering moment’s origin

returning every minute

                       arriving over and over again.