[Down The Highway>

A book thrown out a car, Pages burning on the tar, Embers of words flying In the afternoon wind.

Who scans these pages And reads the unsaids? Flame of the acetylene torch, Flame coursing in one's veins, Flame in the blue unblinking eye!

[Trio]

Chambers of light echo Of half finished dreaming:

Folding and unfolding of a cloud, On a summer afternoon, in the depths Of a high mountain lake.

The way sun rises braising The chambers of one's heart With life giving fire.

The green of a frog's croak In a sudden thunder storm And silver rain on lily pads.

[Twin Geese]

The honk of these geese, Inked on a mercury sky, Drips as black rain from Their wings: a rainbow In monochrome.

Rain is the thread that runs through various beads of memory.

Oak leaves in rain, flutter like a gaint visible pulse.

The light on a rainy day is the light one sees in dreams, just before one awakens.

In the rain a lover is soaked wet by memories, of loves past and loves present.

The bird-heart folds it's wings and seeks refuge in the silence of rain.

Night and solitude. Why ask for another, when this music that anchors itself into you, an abstraction more concrete than the others who left you, is always true, true right to it's bones?

Imagination is the only door out of the prison of daily despair.

Life has a richer taste to the soul that is hungry and mad, even if one suffers more as a consequence.

The only worthy goal of all art is God, yes, to know the final mystery.

Poetry is the last shell of language that covers the human heart. One has to break even poetry, to know the heart.

Writing should be a process that flays open the heart and spilts it open - a expansive red sky.

If one doesn't travel, either with the feet of the body or the feet of the mind, one dies.

Inspite of intense loneliness, all artists must persevere, for in art lies redemption.