Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Poems from Long Ago

November Moon Child

The low moon rests
Among the dark clouds
Coolest of light, but lovely
The branches near my window
Whisper with silver breath
Thin songs in stillness

On the threshold of winter
Crystals along the garden’s edge
Glimmer back starlight

All on this November eve—
The low moon
Among the dark clouds rests


In Rome
I saw no Coliseum or cats
No hand of God drawn by the Master
In the Sistine Chapel

I saw only the cracked ceiling of the stanza
Where upon I traced out my destiny
With fears and regrets
The spaces were all filled by morning

And you—restless
Over your vino or cappuccino
Wondering where to draw the line
(to or from me)

You’ve drawn a circle instead
(me on the outside, of course)
a lifetime ago

I drew myself there too
On the ceiling before I left Rome
Without seeing the Coliseum or the Sistine Chapel

What is at the top of the Spanish Steps?

Tree of Life

We have all left the garden—
As the story goes
With the legacy of our first brothers
Children of Cain claim consciousness
Create out of the earth
Build up a world of stone and technology
Thus—the world as we know it comes into being
Homage is paid to the monuments of men

Those of the Abel stream are silent
Stand in reverence at the cave of wisdom
Remember the world can be redeemed in an instant
Thus—the world as it is and will be appears
Homage is offered at the inner temple

Seeds have been given to the Seth child:
From which grows the Tree of Life

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