Is it so?

Thinking,
a thin electric thread connects;
intermittent, but going to, going fro.

Moments,
photographs placed into a box;
occurring and accumulating, one by one.

Feeling,
a wave on water;
swelling with the huge, unseen gravity.

Silence,
a game of riddles and hints;
speaking volumes, with no words.

Tomorrow,
an unwatched film playing;
flickering images and unknown endings.

Xalam

Waykat, Oh Waykat, take me away.
Take me to a land where nothing is grey.

I dont want to go home;
Here I want to stay.

Cradle me in your arms;
Strum the xalam you play.

Waykat, Oh Waykat, take me away.

Among Many

Inside a room, lamps illuminate.
Widely and infinitely.
But seen from a hilltop at dusk,
One point among many.

Salvaged from and Old Notebook #2

a poet fall-away landslide
a renaissance charriot breakdown
subterrainian hamiltonian
whispered regrets sighed like mayhem
pointed boots kicking dust into their eyes
a skeleton gown draped over the stage
black magnetic hypnotism
and a ghost-like glow from his eyes
long painted eye shadows
like discs in the center of the sun
he falls away into a trance
leaving lovers and wanters behind
like a stone of unimagined momentum
who lays waste to conservatism
and women weeping who want to hold on
green-like transcendence
and falsehood's hopes
a carry-away
a cast-off
speak to him, but speak to him really
people who are really real
are impossible to know
loved by everyone but known by none
like a knight errant in his glittering armor
like rocks on a grave
like a mind who hopes to create
did he want to write great songs?
how not?

Salvaged from an Old Notebook #1

Where are you tonight at the end of day
Where cold winds do not blow
And changing season brings no more hope
Than an opening in the grave yard.

Whose note had fallen from the sky
Like wind on some faraway beach
The sand grains scrape between
The turning gears of my mind.

When's flower is pressed up against Never's frown
A golden How's glass shatters
Silent whisperings and longings for a romance
Among uncommon minds.

He who lives outside the law
Should not throw stones
And he who does not speak
Should never expect to hear.

The Poet's Eyes

Oh poet!
Lend me your eyes!

Reading you,
I see I have never seen.

Hearing you,
I know I have never known.

So grant me,
Every color and tone.

And gift me,
Wondrous shapes and flow.

But pity me,
Even one more sightless day.

Not Now

A horn sounds, and becomes the universe in an instant.
Opposite Yes and No dissolve, and there only is.
Silence even hides ninety percent of what we don't hear.
And space is supposed to curl up upon itself in coils.

There is Nothing that sends you back to Nowhere.
A pig farm where you spent one day as a youth.
It does not matter; it cannot; but it does.
This is the paradox that stands before you as the last challenge.

You saw it, but your seeing it means you've missed it.
You need to see it only.  Not with eyes, and not with mind.
But see it Now.  And now does not ever end.
Can you forget this?  If you do, listen for the inevitable next sound of a horn.

It will bring you back.