“In order to write poetry”, I say,
“I have to feel passion”.
“What is there that you would still like to do?”
the woman asks me,
blazing blue-eyes, searching,
exhorting me to abjure personal limitations.
My mind is blank.
For sometimes the immensity
of what we really want
even defies our own understanding,
below the threshold of our consciousness
a sudden, momentary yearning,
beyond all reason,
too outrageous to articulate.
Conversing, I forget the time.
All too soon the Conjunction ends.
“Enjoy the rest of your journey”, I say,
“I mean your life’s journey”.
And she, with her father and her son,
vanish into the crowds at St. Pancras Station.
And I to the underground
To wander distractedly
In subterranean spaces.
He said to to her
And went and bought a book
. It was called Some Day I’ll Find You.
Man or woman
Angel, god or goddess
Expressing the unknowable
Behold a face
That created the stars
And launched a thousand galaxies
the internal landscape
Wherein the Source of all beauty
In the face of beauty
So unearthly that fear of death
When you have found this Source
Which Wisdom through the ages says
The Higher Self
Projects itself outward
And sees others in transfigured
Love in those around us
To cherish family and friends
Outskirts of town
Global positioning system
The mind brings us
Face to face with the truth
Is it in dreams that we perhaps
Unfreezing the psyche
Loosening our tectonic plates
We need to drink
From the waters of Lethe
In this life: that we may forget
To the Land of
Lost Content maybe we
Perforce must lose sight of the shores
Sail into it
You will be borne away
Your life will never be the same
Of a jigsaw puzzle
Awaiting our Higher Self to
(1) “And within its depths, I saw ingathered,
bound by love in a single volume,
the scattered leaves of all the universe.”
(2) “In the middle of the road of my life
I awoke in the dark wood
where the true way was wholly lost”
Your Precious Gift
Our parting kiss
Through Airport Security
The departure lounge
Playing Beethovens’ Seventh
A song of springtime.
I wonder why you come to me in dreams
As if there is some business left undone?
You want to speak to me - or so it seems –
And know that if you call me, I will come.
I wonder whether you will ever know
How much, across the years, I’ve thought of you
At light of dawn, or sunset’s afterglow,
By starlit nights, or early morning dew.
Perhaps beyond the shadows of the cave,
In some Platonic realm we really live
Transfigured, new; perhaps beyond the grave
We’ll know the pain we caused, and both forgive.
But then, I cast aside philosophy
And wonder: do you ever dream of me?