The Voice

A few shadows in these fingers;
this blood!
gashed sea’s whirlwind:
green brine in the sun’s torment,
sparks of spray dissolve to air.

A drop on the lips,
a star’s genesis;
the flood that regenerated
every animal
from the closing inundation.

What’s man’s hallelujah?
In the elephant’s fury,
in its stamping feet on African soil,
these seeds have been sown,
the grounds have been opened.

It is always opening and being closed,
seeds and wind and earth!
Generations surge, foam broken;
what is the slight petal,
the salt spray of leaves?

there is a voice,
it wants to be heard in waves;
through time’s storm it is trying to speak;
it is seeking itself
since ever a drop of blood
fell like a star from sky’s shore.


On the edge of the mahogany table
the curved cup is made of china,
white as a dream,
as the full moon that glanced
on clear water gleaming.
It hangs on the edge, stalls,
the universe’s crux.
When it falls
stars rip from roots,
light glimmering on waves
sinks metal to smothering brine
without a ripple for grave.


When god broke oblivion into things;
when his hammer fell and snapped
the egg of being like a stone,
every soul prefigured in the nucleus,
every death:
the walls of fallen Rome,
the yet to fall peaks of skyscrapers,
jungles, toads, birds,
supernal rays of lights;
from one seed
one solitude:
it stretches from one rim of darkness
to the other.
Every being is its center.

Air Balloon

The sun’s own light,
star mingled leaves,
bright waves of day,
the shore sings gong bell chimes
of every atom of sand illuminate

Soul’s vast balloon,
wide stretched canvass, scorch,
fueling forks of flame:
air boils heavenly,
upward in a vast ascent.

I will die,
watch stars drop like crooked flowers
when winter wafts,
sucks sublime colors
from rooted fingers.

Yet here and now,
throat wide,
wind within a trumpet blast,
heart soars on my earth -
in my stars spokes of hours.

There is one great wheel
and in the center
one nucleus of joy burns,
turns air to alacrity:
the universe is one unquenchable sphere.

Adam Speaking

In her small feet the sound of many songbirds,
warm spring air, delicate colors.

Where the soft seam of her thigh ends
there is infinite richness.

In the white skin that covers her hips
there are many clear rivers,
I am turned over in their swift currents.

Where her cheek bends slowly into her chin,
I have seen the birth of suns.

In the roundness of her lips I have felt
the crowded distances of stars.

Her dark eyes like shimmering plums, moist;
the sweetness of their gaze
is not mirrored in the earth.

The way her hair falls is like bright rain,
warm winds over falling waves,
the calm wash of rejuvenating waters.

When she is absent from the garden I suffer greatly.
The apples that glint like rubies,
the translucent, emerald grasses and leaves,
the sand that is like diamonds,
the deep fluctuating azure of this river,
the golden aura that emanates from these tress -
they are all as so much turning ash.
When she is absent they are naught.
None can please for I have thirst.

God for his created world does not love
as I love:
Though he formed chaos with his strength
into universe,
He had to be born my son.

In me there is emptiness.
In my stems and marrow there is emptiness.
She is of my rib I know
for I desire to possess her.
She is of my rib I know
for when she moves about me,
when I know the gentle lightning of her touch,
my brokenness is healed.

I could forgive her
until stars are torn from sockets,
until creation dazzles into abyss,
until the lord of things
is forced to form a second everything,
I could forgive her
for stealing Eden from my sons;
I could forgive her
for sundering the earth from paradise.


A crystal on my fingertip,
the sky’s own diadem;
my human warmth: it melts and slips
like colors from their stems.

This, this is what a thought is like,
this shows me human dreams -
from spaces of the day and night
they pass and shine and gleam.

A moment so illuminate,
a God lives in the soul,
that falls to water, consecrates
the grasses as they grow

A Modern Parable

In a desert valley a man is given a small cupful of water and a crust of bread and told this is all he requires in order to exist. Human nature is such that he grows habituated to the meager diet – his desire conforms to what he has been shown and he becomes ‘happy’ through this small satisfaction. Because the food is small, over the course of generations, his descendants grow smaller and smaller as well, degenerating over the years into a pygmy race that mirrors in stature the object of their desire. Next to this valley there is a high mountain chain. Beyond these mountains there is a paradise of the sweetest fruits that grow in the spaces of the universe. In this paradise there is a never-ending river of clear, cool, translucent water, there are silver vats overflowing with honey and there is a wine that, once drunk, causes the form of man to grow until his hair intermingles with the tides of the stars. The increase in size likewise brings with it an increase in the experience of happiness: as the objects of desire become monumental, so to does joy in the gratification of desire become something incredible. This is a story of what the earth is and what it could be.

Thomas Wolfe

Oh, vast ideascapes,
Oh, moonlight on the leaf of a face,
Oh, stone beneath my toes,
Oh, opened door;
I am going through,
You who were so awakened,
Those who will be living suns,
I am going through.