A Poet Reflects

Wandering through a pine forest one early morn, his thoughts fluttering with the birdsongs, bathing in the clear, bright air, he came upon a high cliff, and as his gaze relaxed, stretching unto the far horizon ahead, his being spoke,

‘I began to write poetry only after a life that laid deeply dormant within me began to wake. My poetry is the tree rings widening with the pulse of her awakening, a telluric power that speaks and speaks ever more certainly, the records of a time stepping out of its own bounds and into…

White Pearl of Silence

I’ve hung to mind’s thread for far too long,
an ever thinning string of hope
keeping me from wholly drowning in the stew
brewing somewhere in unknown depths.

The ribbon of mist suddenly evanesces
as into the sky I fall,
a wine-ocean fermenting lost voices at dusk
to give them back bright clear at dawn.

Heart, a seashell opens,
on the silken, red tongue
the white pearl of silence.