There is, I hear, a difference of opinion On the way that a poem, it should be written– Whether with random lines of nonsense-making, Or with metered lines of rhythm and rhyming, Or with unrhymed lines that adhere to a meter, Or with a sensible story that tells the reader Something meaningful and useful for…

Riding upon the wings of time with the ages of history in hand, The silent stealth rider of the heavens arises to gird on the fleshly souls of all man. The passage of horse-ridden rider is as seamless as the flow of the course of the river which runs Through mountains and valleys and cities…

The waiting room in life—No matter where you go—Is the worst sort of placeTo be, and the serviceAlways sucks the lifeOut of your soul likeNothing else ever could.You might try to meditateOr read a stupid book,But the goddam TV,Playing just loud enoughSo you can’t hear yourBreath or silence yourThoughts, is cloudingYour mind with worthlessInformation you…

throw. caution to the wind. and let peace like a river run down the side of this mountain. just like the wind blows wherever it will and wherever it will blow it blows. like a will un- known and known by those un- known and known by those un- known and known. each of us…

When the song of the morning starts, with all the birds a-singing, I wish I could awaken and join the morning sun that is bringing Light to shine upon all whose faces beam with life awakening, But it is all that I can do to make my eyes to begin their opening. With shades drawn…

Thirty-three years I have lived.Thirty-three years I have died.In sum-total, thirty-three have I. What of the past, which is past?What of the present, which only lasts?And of the future, all but forecasts? I have been born and I have died.In many endeavors, I have tried.In sum-total, these alone have I. The past is taunting, where…

When I can’t think of anything to write.  Mindless.  Thoughtless.  Wordless.  Empty.  Blank.  Slate.  The muse within me.  Is dead. Deceased.  And unmoving.  I cannot write.  A word. Nor scribe.  Even a letter.  Upon the script of time.  For of nothing comes.   Nothing.  And I am nothing.  As is the muse.  Within. Me

Throw away, cast off all caution– Not to the wind but to light waves, Whereon rides the overriding Almighty one of all the days: The sun high in its course upon The star-ridden path of heaven. For as the sun without a care Bares its brilliance ‘cross dark skies, Myriad, numberless to count, So might…

Do not write much of your languishing soul That lies deep within the virulent throes Of anguished weeping and bitter sorrows, For the Age comes when all will be made whole And what was once only found to be nights Has been made anew in recreation By holy hands with a touch that ignites Regeneration…