Late at night the
poet wields his pen
Revealing the strange
things everybody knows
To eyes that see but
do not look, and ears
That hear but do not
listen. The sons of men
Cannot survive
reality’s hammer blows
Without some armor,
but armor only kills
And must be chinked
and softened by many tears.
The question is
answered, not by minds, but wills.

The Truth will kill
you, if you let it reach
All in you that is
not true. It does but slay
What is already dead.
The image shields
From nail wounds, but
one might as well say
That we are shielded
from the dance by other dancers.
We will not learn so
the poet cannot teach,
Cannot conquer
because we will not yield.
So full of questions,
but no longer believe in answers

 Perfect love casts
out all fear, but there
Is precisely
mankind’s dilemma. The apple grove
Is littered with
rotten cores snatched down still green
From living trees.
The unready, stolen gift
Turns our stomach
sour and tears a rift
In the fabric of the
cosmos. All this has been
Our curse, that now
it is precisely perfect love
I vitally need and
most supremely fear.
Oh Rivers clap your
hands, ye mountains dance
And by your dance say
things too full of truth
To be said with
prose; by bright-eyed paradox
Shielding hearts from
the Lover’s fiery shocks.
Burning into our
hearts. The fire of youth
Hides in ancient
patience. We look askance
At giddiness; not all
is gold that gleams.
But wisdom hides in
foolishness and so we dream.

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