Panspychic Instruments

Lenses, table-top pots
Stop instants--
Senses trimmed in retorts
Decant, tease 

Essence out of light,
A cosmos out of night, all

Creation ideating.

You'd think a
Mind that spans
All time would
Not change suddenly,
Impose what could
Be upon what was
But sometimes that's
All it does.

The Light

Light has no age, no temporal
Flow, only a momentary
Rainbow where dreams 
And lifetimes go --a
Universe, where thought
Has found us and light
Of other days surrounds 
Us: countless stars shine
Like ours --we circle one.
Its brightness; yours, mine.
Spectral light, we are one.
Nor is our best yet done.
 

Whirlwinds And Plum Blossoms

Wind sweeps petals around 
Us in spring and we swirling 
Go disguised in dustdevils--
Observe without bias and
Classify our observations
In congress of whirlwinds.
We suspect we are mammals.

Ten Bucks

[This image depicts  paper currency, solely a work of the United States Government, is ineligible for US copyright,  therefore in the public domain]

I've written poetry
about 60 years
And earned maybe
Ten bucks for it --
Which provided
Encouragement
To keep at it.
Now I'm an old
Man, but still a
Young poet --not
A bad bargain
For ten bucks.

Pansy

Splash of color over
A decaying can--
Some music cast into
Time-- plays sunlight
Like a chime, a flash
Forgotten, a rhyme, a
Tone brief and bright--
A life of its own.

Past Untitled

Life selects
Certain molecules.
Even in this thought,
A trail of atoms
Changes the future. 

Flying With

This date and this progression of time have got me remembering a poem posted 8 years ago. I will repost it now, with the compassionate comment of my dear friend Willie and my reply. I would welcome comments now too. This sort of poem, a kind of elegy, invites remembrance in all of us of those who brought us into this incredibly beautiful world.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Flying With

[with thoughts of L. J. E., b.Jl. 29, 1910, d.Nov.7, 1960]


Wind ends nowhere,
Erodes sand, yardang,
Clay, shakes roof,
Web, hair and lifts
The matted woof of
Forest floor away.
Cyclic, like night
And day, causes
Clouds to spread,
Spins storms to
Shred on hills, crags,
Drags seed onto new
Meadows and, under
Spill and spell, leaves
A distillate
Of rainbows --ends nowhere,
Begins in mystery.
Between, it
Tests eternity.

2 comments:

1. 
   WillieNovember 7, 2010 at 9:07 PM

   While this poem's dedication refers to folks I don't think I ever knew, your details get me down to the level where I'm pulled into knowing them as much as I know anything else from dust to dust, flesh to flesh. Inchoate but expressible by words well bespoke, mystery and eternity lie here indeed!

   
   
2. 
   Geo.November 7, 2010 at 9:30 PM

   You know I seldom dedicate poems, am uncomfortable with elegy, but this is the 50th anniversary of my dad's death. You know how these mysteries go. We're always knotting sheets together and escaping out the orphanage window.