that I have nothing to say
but everything to feel
that I do know
what I can’t say
that it is in me
as it is in you
that my soul can talk
to yours without words
that the earth itself is my poem
a tiny collocation in the language
of stars and galaxies and planets
that all the secrets of the universe
can be expressed
in a single line
if only I could say it.
WhistleDance Poems
Please be advised that this is a handmade product and natural variations in quality only add to its inherent charm.
Wednesday, November 18, 2020
Thursday, April 30, 2020
April’s Apogee
With each act of creation
we draw ourselves closer
to that one great moment
when Creation first ItSelf-ed.
Word by word, line by line,
we, too, become ourSelves,
as each poem pulls us into
the Apotheosis of April.
we draw ourselves closer
to that one great moment
when Creation first ItSelf-ed.
Word by word, line by line,
we, too, become ourSelves,
as each poem pulls us into
the Apotheosis of April.
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Doomed
Of impending extinction a sign
is a species’ clear failure to rhyme.
The rare Purple Turtle
from the start was infertile.
And the Great Turquoise Tortoise
succumbed to rigor mortis.
is a species’ clear failure to rhyme.
The rare Purple Turtle
from the start was infertile.
And the Great Turquoise Tortoise
succumbed to rigor mortis.
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Möbius Guitar
Held in my arms, a guitar.
Under my fingers, the strings.
From the strings, a chord rings out.
Within the chord, a single note.
The note riding on a wave of sound.
Each wave hilled and valleyed, rocky with overtones.
Over the next hill, a small town.
Winding through the town, a street.
On the street, a music store.
Inside the store, a guitar.
A hand, reaching for it.
Under my fingers, the strings.
From the strings, a chord rings out.
Within the chord, a single note.
The note riding on a wave of sound.
Each wave hilled and valleyed, rocky with overtones.
Over the next hill, a small town.
Winding through the town, a street.
On the street, a music store.
Inside the store, a guitar.
A hand, reaching for it.
Monday, April 27, 2020
At the Basilica of the Annunciation
Mother Mary lifts my eyes
and I am a child again.
My small hands slip into hers
as easy as breathing
and touch the loving callouses
where countless pilgrim hands
have rested, then carried away
infinitesimal flecks of paint,
infinite portions of blessings,
revealing, underneath the white,
the gray, and underneath the gray,
a love that has no underneath.
and I am a child again.
My small hands slip into hers
as easy as breathing
and touch the loving callouses
where countless pilgrim hands
have rested, then carried away
infinitesimal flecks of paint,
infinite portions of blessings,
revealing, underneath the white,
the gray, and underneath the gray,
a love that has no underneath.
Sunday, April 26, 2020
Five Unities
I
Shining through you,
the light in your eyes
shines through me.
II
One note struck,
and, suddenly, guitars everywhere hum
in sympathetic delight.
III
Thirty-seven trillion cells,
—thirty-seven thousand thousand thousand thousand!—
in your body.
IV
One drop becomes
a river, becomes a flood,
becomes the sea.
V
Sun and moon,
earth and wind and breath,
mind and heart.
Saturday, April 25, 2020
Orchard Nocturne
Easing down, we feel the earth, its heartbeat close
within us, whispering why it willed us from our beds,
and beckoning branches dance above our doubting heads,
raising our gazes until we notice, as time slows,
celestial lights adorning the roofs of hidden chapels,
and we reach up, astronomers picking stars like apples.
within us, whispering why it willed us from our beds,
and beckoning branches dance above our doubting heads,
raising our gazes until we notice, as time slows,
celestial lights adorning the roofs of hidden chapels,
and we reach up, astronomers picking stars like apples.
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