The Poem Goes
There are dreams engraved in the mind
morning did not have a chance to dispel
from the real. You could bring them on,
vivid pictures on the screen of memory.
But some dreams fragment, move on out
leaving behind sad or somehow felicitous
feelings, but you can’t remember the dream.
Its pieces flow with your sad or happy
dream into a huge mental void that can
match that of the universe, with your dream
embossed on them. They float in so slightly
uneven colored shreds - a lost work of art?
Fragments of something have left you wondering
whether it was an important piece or not...
And he holds my life
only to let it go then
catch it again. I
breathe in the tango. Somewhere
we dance. It is just
a dance—a dance, but a dance
is more than a dance.
I then almost slip, it is
the music that caught
me. And then we move on; he
holds my life to let
it go, then catch it again.
Some Don't Spare
I sought to move cautious with love.
I didn't want to wound someone
I thought possessed too many selves.
I only wanted one, and because
of this, there was no pull of love.
I wished to spare a heart, allow
some time to move on by. He'll be
just fine. So, I didn't answer
my love's question. Soon, everything
in its time, my thought. How quick he
gave in to another! He cut
as lightning in the darkened sky . . .
he revealed himself like Newton's
apple racing toward the earth.
From the platform
I see shades of blue on blue. In
the distant sky
the bridge to elsewhere goes from blue
to blue. Then blue-
grey, soon grey-blue. The train’s rattle
Here and there comes a spatter of
grey on grey, then rain. And the world
metal reflecting on itself.
The Old Drum
The good drummer knows the ancient sound.
Sacred instrument, ceremonial beat of life,
universal resounding. The energy flows
with primitive break through time.
The sound, the rhythm flows with life’s
vibration. Let this be not war, but good,
we need the good drummer, the call
to life – think of the birds, the sky,
the trees and the drum that brings you
from one day to the next—the pounding
heart. The drum leads with the festive
call, diverse, whether in the hand, the lap
or the floor, it sways the body, the feet
respond. Its rhythms bring the mind into
ecstatic places. It sets the tone, the call
this striking beat punctuates living, it
will resound in space, primordial
heart—the beat of the good drummer.
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