for Sierra Golden
When the fisherman camped along the lake
an inner waterfall
spilled over him, how deep it runs
in blood and bone
the oneness of our kind
as if the heart posed the question
What then makes us different?
Not so much not even personality.
It’s extreme love and hate
the sea of emotions between the two
makes the individual unique
but the measure of humanity for him
moved more in one direction,
how much we care for others beings
no matter how they are–
It is written love your neighbor, strangers
love your enemies,
love and do as you please
but the man who inspired it later was a god–
The fisherman stopped thinking
took out the hook of doubt
sure as you or I he’d never fill that job
geared up his boat, brought home seven trout.
What Chopin wanted most
was to die
in George Sand arms,
on his deathbed
all he got
Was a nosegay of violets
She left at his door
When her daughter
turned her away–
People can be such shits.
He wrote a friend on his deathbed, “She promised me I would die in her arms.”
How did Chopin die?
Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin aka George Sand, Novelist.
And yes, I’m aware that the event may be based on legend, but many believe it is true and by it’s very intensity, a legend becomes a painful little poem with a nasty but truthful conclusion. It is justified by that truth. “Art is not a study of positive reality, it is the seeking for ideal truth.” ~George Sand
I had my annual physical today and all was well.
The Doc. asked if I had any concerns, I said
“I need a strong pain killer for a broken heart.”
He laughed, but I said, “I’m serious.
Nothing but booze helps and that gives me a hangover.
Can’t you give me something for it?”
He said, “Look man, at sixty five
You’ve only just started a difficult walk
Down the senior path and you haven’t seen anything yet!
My advice is enjoy the scenery.”
I wanted to punch him, but his words hit me harder.
— Wasn’t it Harry Truman who said
“I never gave them hell. I just told them the truth
And created it for them.” Or words to that effect?
When I cut my hair
grows back again–
Aren’t for friends
Yoga class at the lake, she catches his eye
An electric charge in the brain…
Not the spring lilac, nor the plum in bloom
Something more unnatural
The odor of perfume, the beauty in surprise.
Waves of the seasons ring the shore
Spirit seeks a form, an afternoon union–
They do not know what
Causes their communion– She invites him
Tilts her head back in abandon to receive him.
Mother of time, days gestate in the womb
Men may spin all to doom, but she is summer
Winter long, spring in December
Meadow of unlived hours
Wildflowers glow in shadows of the moon.
They will say it was not by chance they met
They will claim it no mistake
Birth reveals the truth, was a newborn fate.
I am happy to announce that Lost Tower Publications will include my poem “Garden by the Sea” in their new anthology “Along the Shore” coming out April 2017.
Lost Tower Publications
After all, as you lie in my arms knowing all
needing nothing but what is, the earth rolling away from the sun
Thunder rolling in the distance
Can you hear the thunder of death, my dear?
Yes, I hear it and more, I hear a sound
Not everyone can hear, I feel an energy not everyone can feel — a Sound
Birth a note, Love a song, Death
Spinning days into silk, connecting man to men, men to women
Woman to every child, weaving nights out of the past –
The Dead speak to me
They are not dead; they are here
And with the silk of souls our future is woven, all that is
that is humanly good, out of birth this note, out of love this song
Little worm silken light little word OM
Japanese Garden Photo by Terry Busch