The sacred hearts of old women
deserve to be worshiped on
an altar of reverence and dignity,
anointed with oils and earnest tears.

For here are stored the true memories
and secrets and dictates of life.
Old women know the power of the
universe, and the human heart.

Within those chambered nautilises
lies the answer to the humble paradoxes
of living and dying, hating and loving,
and the Sanskrit of ages passing.

1. Time and Space is an Illusion

For three days she and her tribe
wandered from star to star,
they saw many moons rising and falling
from the center of the universe.
Near the end of their journey,
their silence became overwhelming:
Earth had come into view, and the
blue-green dot was amazing, its white
encapsulating the sea foam they had
read about a thousand centuries ago,
before they had set out to discover
the only planet that was worshiped from afar,
for they were the first of their kind.

BY JESS''''I wasn't pre-empting when I said recently your poetry is getting better.
I was right. I think you are putting more thought into it.''''''

You have shown me the right path
into that tunnel of darkness
I groped all life long
now I wouldn't let you go
for the remaining life
which ain't
I suppose is too long ...

In garb drab, and cold, cold room
a hand dips brush in gold..
Transforms a sheet of vellum smooth
to story, lovely told.
.
Head bent low in candlelight
his hunger never fed,
for though this man of God has food
art takes it's place instead.
.
Notes not he, the winter chill
as he draws vines and flowers.
Concentrating in such depth,
his prayers are for hours.
.
That he may stay in his small cell
and finely draw the letters.
He lives a life colored so bright,

Answers? There...
-
answers? there
30 years devoid of air
clouds pushing low to ground
I am found, I am found
in a basement in Ohio
for fear of storm
the norm, the norm
-
I felt the blade on my forehead
briefly but
the cheers and dread
were mixed
I did the job
fixed up
free
called
debauchery
or whatever you like
the spike, the pike, the microphone
the words turn like
a telephone............................one way
-
another day

After something extra normal happens
Often, you hear people claim to be seers
They saw the sign and knew it was coming
Yet, they did nothing to avert teardrops

The crow we heard close-by implied a loss
A portent call from the underworld spirits
A family mourned one of theirs at noon
So we called the guiltless bird evil envoy

Entrenched fearful belief of our people
Children chase the birds away with stones
Go to where there are many wooden spoons
They shout, another ill death is averted

veils
cloyed, weighted
with a waxed nothingness of want
incite a niggling, ephemeral knowledge

so my heart lifts higher

not to reach joy
but to clog and silence

gag the very part of me
that could sing
.

Your Glow

Starlight doesn’t disperse shadows in my mind.
They point to those places that we should find
Peace that transcends each hour of the night
The shadows will stay until new daylight.

Hold us here from this our shadows glare
I am so frightened we will be lost there
Thank you my love I can now feel your glow.
This is where, with your love I want to go.

In love together we could always be
Just you and me, both, being completely free
Now hold me as I feel the morning warm.
I am in essence, beautifully reborn.

sometimes when I read others grumble
I too tumble
but then I compose my off cuffy ones …
some senselessness ones
this is such a one…
still you love it
that's the whole fun
poetry makes me smile
and I help others also follow me
those who cry
I shake them up too you see
just simply follow me
I am the master of free verse
off the cuff creative poetry
humour I must all of thee
which accomplish
very few poets like me.

The other day I called it in

to my office, from the hall;

it wasn't that my muse was, "off"

it wasn't doing anything, for any reason, at all !

At the onset I thought it was but, a tad tired;

and l thought l'd give it another day;

then l began realizing a listlessness

that was contagious, much to my dismay.

I spoke with the man at the pharmacy

who assured me that there was a cure;

and that, if it were not soon administered

there'd be consequences no poet could endure !