Poetry Archives Index



                              ROSEBREATH - 2

                              File Opened 7/96



                              ADAM IN PARADISE

                              ALL CREATION URGES HER...

                              A POEM ON A LETTER

                              A SONG OF LOVE'S SUB TOTALITIES






                              HEART POCKETS




                              I'M LOOKING FOR YOU



                              KNOW, THERE IS ALWAYS A WELCOME

                                              AS NATURAL AS SONG



                              LOVE'S TRANSFORMATIVE VISION

                                     OF FULL ACCEPTANCE

                              LOVING THE WORM TO DEATH

                              LYRICAL POETS



                              MORE DREAMS OF THE EMERGENT HOLY ONE

                              MORE WRITING IN PREPARATION



                              POEM WRITERS



                              QUANTUM LOVE



                              THERE IS A TREMBLING OF THE HEART

                              THESE THINGS SPEAK SOLILOQUIES

                              THE VOYAGE OF LILLY'S ROSE

                              THIS IS BEAUTY



                              UPON A WOMAN'S FACE AFTER HEARING

                                    THE LOVE POEMS OF PABLO NERUDA


                              LAST POEM IN FILE: KNOW, THERE IS ALWAYS

                                                 A WELCOME AS NATURAL AS SONG




                              THE POEMS:




                              THE VOYAGE OF LILLY'S ROSE


                              There is a Rose

                              that sat between the naked breasts

                              of mermaids,

                              that once rode the foam of the sky

                              from the flames of Persia to France.

                              It unfolded in Francis's canticles;

                              it bloomed in the green dew

                              of Ireland

                              and the wild islands

                              of Chile.

                              Rock Conies and elves

                              held it in their teeth;

                              druids found it in deep earth;

                              Solomon in his gardens.

                              It grew in the belly of Yeats;

                              it blossomed in the breasts

                              of Neruda's Matilde.

                              Lilly carried it to me

                              in a golden pouch

                              spangled with blue stones.

                              She smiled 

                              and placed it into a crack

                              in King David's altar:

                              It split the stone in two.

                              She laughed

                              and dropped it in the crock

                              that held all Christian graces.

                              Its roots broke through

                              and poured that liqueur

                              all through the earth and sky.

                              She placed it in naked air.

                              It vanished and exploded open

                              in my mouth with countless blooms

                              every time I ate bread...

                              or drank any common thing.





                              LYRICAL POETS


                              Have you noticed

                              that lyrical poets

                              write about crickets

                              and straw and woman?

                              that lyrical poets

                              write about stones,

                              and river grass,

                              birds and breezes

                              and woman--

                              for lyrical poets

                              are poets in love,

                              flinging themselves

                              into the wildest visions

                              of their minds

                              to become itั

                              encountering God.


                              Have you ever noticed

                              that God

                              writes about crickets

                              and straw and women,

                              and stones, reeds

                              and river grass,

                              birds and breezes,

                              and women?

                              For God is a God in Love

                              and lyrical,

                              and laughing,

                              a poet, an artist, a maker,

                              flinging Himself into the wildest visions

                              of His mind to become itั

                              encountering man.








                              UPON A WOMAN'S FACE AFTER HEARING

                              THE LOVE POEMS OF PABLO NERUDA


                              I have observed

                              that when a person's soul

                              opens to the sheen-freshness

                              of secret sunlight upon the silent

                              waters of the heart,

                              sharp, clear

                              stars arise in their eyes.

                              It is love

                              that moves thusly,

                              making all souls beautiful.

                              And it is love

                              that makes God's green blood

                              jump down into blood

                              so that minds

                              delight in countless

                              connections of love

                              weaving love into love,

                              brightening the inside

                              of the skull

                              until eyes are made lanterns

                              showing light.

                              And when the tongue

                              (that last resistance),

                              is love tutored

                              to turn from the rancor and jangle

                              existent apart from that Love

                              that informs trees

                              and motions of the moon

                              and stars,

                              then dark honey moves

                              from brain to mouth,

                              and amber-flamed honey

                              flares from lips

                              and spills through human discourse

                              into shadows

                              and roots of all things

                              that silently glow.







                              MORE DREAMS OF THE EMERGENT HOLY ONE


                              More dreams of you,

                              the pure-hearted pursuer of God,

                              drinker of that unflinching light

                              that Jesus drank before He became it.

                              Your hair is drifting

                              on the winds like pollen

                              across green seas,

                              and through the peaceful skies,

                              like gold dust, drifting,

                              bearing your honeysuckle fragrance,

                              your lusty humus, your faint carnations

                              in its long fluid strands.

                              When you come in the night

                              with your three trembling roses,

                              you fill my darkness with fragrance.

                              I would kiss you with foursquare kisses

                              upon your double face

                              and watch in the mirror of you

                              visions of constellations

                              being born in luminous clouds

                              across southern skies.

                              In the calm waters of your eyes

                              I would see fleeting images

                              of rivers flooding arroyos,

                              bright honey offered by a warrior

                              on his extended staff,

                              a balsam-balmed book that pours winds

                              and flutes from its pages.

                              And because of your devotion,

                              I would choose a God-huge freedom

                              pouring through wheat and water,

                              onions and wine,

                              so the crafty dwarf of me

                              shall never remember his old magic

                              of how to entrap

                              God's sweet oils in dirty pots

                              so he can hoard them in dark basements,

                              nor how he once wove word-spells

                              out of a child's fear

                              to enchant swans into housewives

                              enthralled with specials at the mall.







                              THERE IS A TREMBLING OF THE HEART


                              There is a trembling

                              of the heart that comes

                              in the presence of birth,

                              or death,

                              or a pure soul:

                              for then is sensed

                              the ceaseless origin

                              of all things

                              and a kind of music

                              of mystery

                              that has no words...

                              only an imperceptible

                              emotional movement.

                              There is an ever-blooming,

                              unblooming, full-bloomed


                              always held out to us;

                              there is milk for our lips

                              constantly dribbling from a breast

                              that has no body

                              until we take off our bodies

                              to sink beyond silence

                              into the teeming throngs

                              of a wing-packed sky.







                              MORE WRITING IN PREPARATION


                              When you arrive

                              summer will blow in my windows

                              dressed in its carnation garments,

                              trailing straw.

                              And that secret worm will shrink

                              before your luminous gaze

                              and fall from love's apple

                              into the dark.

                              You are the little sister

                              of those wild spices

                              that have grown upon the dry hills

                              of Provence since Roman times:

                              thyme, oregano, lavender,

                              to perfume your hair by day,

                              the smoke of sage wood fires

                              soaking into your skin

                              by night.

                              I swear,

                              if you should write a poem

                              the paper itself

                              would reek of summer.







                              A SONG OF LOVE'S SUBTOTALITIES


                              We are part of each other,

                              now, as we always have been,

                              in the same way

                              that the light of the sun

                              dwells in my breast

                              and in every strand

                              of your hair;

                              in the same way as

                              the heaven's waters

                              course through

                              my brain and your eyes:

                              pouring out liquid love,

                              pouring out a shine of ecstasy.

                              Someone put the Crab Nebula

                              in the palms of your hands.

                              Someone put Cleopatra kissing Anthony

                              in your lips.

                              Someone put Jesus multiplying bread

                              for the hungry

                              in your breasts.

                              Whenever you choose it

                              I can enter all history

                              and space of time

                              through your body.

                              Do not think I am writing

                              anything less then

                              Love's realities.






                              QUANTUM LOVE


                              I ponder,

                              where does your body end

                              and the ocean you play in begin?

                              Or where the exact boundary

                              between your hand

                              and the stone your hand

                              rests upon?

                              Journeying deeper

                              into the Life of life

                              all merges in light.

                              You are the woman

                              and the hen in your arms;

                              you the eater

                              and the egg eaten;

                              you the exclamation of wonder

                              and the lightning bolt;

                              you the observer

                              and the observed:

                              a beloved specific

                              in the unbroken sea

                              of God.           

                              You are nothing.

                              You are everything.

                              You a fluid, unfolding,

                              beloved, happening

                              of soul fragrances

                              impelled by Spirit.

                              You sweat, you belch,

                              you laugh at me,

                              the man, and the hen in my arms...

                              the eater and the egg eaten.


                              And yet, reality is beyond

                              all this.







                              THIS IS BEAUTY


                              Arriving like a shy boy

                              in the presence of a girl he loves,

                              I come to you and you to me:

                              as that green light in the shadow of trees

                              kisses the ground,

                              as the blue light of stones caresses them.

                              You walk in the coral hues

                              reflecting from your own spirit.

                              Bees hum around you

                              as if your body were the stalk

                              of a blue corn flower;

                              your hair the petals of wild daisies.

                              Everywhere we walk there is light.

                              It is God's delicacies at work.

                              This is beauty.






                              A POEM ON A LETTER


                              I thought of this rude woman

                              who secretly loves you, God,

                              and suddenly was in the presence

                              of that humble carpenter

                              of Nazareth,

                              the famous Prince of peace

                              who shyly peeks through

                              the flowered lattice

                              of the heart.

                              A focused sunlight

                              radiant with silver beams

                              shown in You with her name.

                              Infused with this confidence

                              I wrote her a letter

                              of anger and love

                              without knowing why.






                              LOVE'S TRANSFORMATIVE VISION

                              OF FULL ACCEPTANCE


                              It is love that impels us

                              to link our beloved one

                              to life;

                              to invoke in them

                              light's freedom, love's freshness,

                              until we drink a radiant dew

                              spilling from their eyes.

                              Perhaps their fingers

                              are shaped like cigar stubs;

                              perhaps their nose

                              like a cauliflower bud.

                              Or their ears

                              sitting like pretty artichokes

                              amidst their hair,

                              or their breasts

                              hanging like soft prunes...

                              but the instinct of love

                              remains to beautify--

                              to sing the soul open

                              until an inner sun arises

                              to clarify those dark eyes;

                              an inner moon shines

                              to make the spirit tremble

                              with night ecstasies.








                              I'M LOOKING FOR YOU


                              I am looking for you,

                              shy bride

                              hidden in the reeds of dark rivers...

                              sea shell ears

                              peeking through yellow grasses,

                              feet sliding in the foam:

                              your fingers troubling the waters;

                              the palms of your hands calming them,

                              undressing your body in the sun.

                              There is no want in you,

                              no desire but to love,

                              hidden as you are in yourself;

                              unknown to all

                              but the radiant God.

                              I'm spilling wheat flour

                              on a stone

                              to write love letters for you

                              under the sky;

                              I'm working with the wind...

                              The rain softens my poem,

                              and the sun bakes it

                              to make a small tart

                              for your mouth.

                              When you taste it, you taste me,

                              as the fragrance of yourself

                              explodes in your mouth.






                              POEM WRITERS OF TWO WORLDS


                              Sitting on a rock

                              the night curls around

                              jasmine with odors

                              from a distant land

                              and you.

                              Your fingers hold tree bottoms,

                              mouse droppings on a leaf

                              and a fabulous sunflower

                              in the night.

                              I love the night,

                              the moon-dimmed stars

                              and the cold black drift

                              of your hair.


                              on the other side of the world,

                              a Chinese woman

                              is writing a poem

                              for the man she loves.

                              It is day now,

                              and she is wading in water.

                              He is trimming the delicate top twigs

                              of a plum tree

                              and spies bird droppings on a leaf.

                              She is holding a lotus flower

                              up to the sun.

                              The fields are full of workers.

                              Everyone's hair is black.







                              ADAM IN PARADISE


                              Before Eve was made

                              Adam was sensual and alone.

                              So Adam ran naked in the wind

                              and the wind loved him.

                              And Adam lay long

                              in tree branches

                              and loved the earth

                              and sky.

                              And Adam sat in a river,

                              and the river loved him:


                              over his shoulders,

                              spilling down his belly,

                              foaming in his lap.

                              And Adam laughed with his angel...

                              And God laughed in Adam's wonder.

                              Then, when the flowers were too

                              much for Adam's eyes to contain,

                              and the stone silence

                              too much for his soul

                              to savor, and every sprig of grass

                              and slither of moss

                              an ecstasy in his bones,

                              God said, "It's not enough.

                              Let's have more Joy!"

                              So He gathered the wind,

                              lithe grasses and foam

                              of the tides, the dark

                              of a tiger's eye and milk drops

                              off a lamb's chin,

                              and poured them into a woman


                              saying, "You ain't seen

                              nothen yet, boy!" 

                              And God laughed.

                              And Adam laughed.

                              And Eve opened up her arms

                              and loins

                              and let the world flow out.







                              LOVING THE WORM TO DEATH


                              I told a young woman

                              --whose heart was opening,

                              and longing to open

                              unto God's rose--

                              about the worm

                              that eats the rose.

                              She said to love it.

                              Oh worm,

                              (my beloved worm),

                              how shall I love you

                              to die away

                              into a butterfly?








                         She called, shy,

                         afraid of being

                         at a disadvantage,

                         with her raven hair,

                         with her dispassionate eyes.

                         Her heart broke through

                         the slight tremble of her voice

                         as she laughed about life,

                         when she spoke of her hunger...

                         One day her eyes will burn

                         with a simple flame

                         that consumes countless constrictions

                         as her whole soul blossoms

                         into the lithe dance

                         her body yields to make.









                         THESE THINGS SPEAK SOLILOQUIES

                         (Pondering by the river)


                         Without moving

                         I can see it all:

                         the blue and silver moment

                         of the water's silky slide;

                         the painful tenderness

                         of the flowing foam

                         which cries its soft cries

                         unto the air; the busy ants

                         who scour desolate rocks

                         for something unseen

                         and completely unknown;

                         the miniature, manicured space

                         of moss and mushrooms;

                         the raw power of twisted roots

                         that birth a burst of green

                         and spume of tree force

                         that catches hold of something

                         in the brain and loins of the body

                         flinging it upward

                         into the naked sky

                         like tree breath,

                         like a man's ecstasy of being!

                         And these things

                         speak soliloquies

                         of God, and the open soul...

                         and magnificent miracles

                         in which we mostly sleep.







                              HEART POCKETS


                              There are pockets in the heart

                              that hold seeds and feathers,

                              and clumps of earth

                              from those vast wheat

                              fields outside of


                              where Van Gogh died.

                              If a woman slips in

                              two fingers

                              to open one pocket

                              insects fly out,

                              and swallows chase

                              them, banking quickly

                              this way and that

                              over fluid deep places

                              that are empty

                              and silent...

                              Clouds drift out of

                              old pockets

                              into new pockets,

                              and rest amidst scraps of linen.

                              It takes a deft hand

                              and a long-handled ladle

                              to scoop clouds out

                              of their places of comfort.

                              If you catch one,

                              and let it spill over your spoon

                              rain falls from your eyes

                              into your lap.

                              When all pockets are empty

                              God smiles through your face

                              and pours liquid things,

                              like lambs and gazelles,

                              like human souls,

                              from pocket to pocket

                              until the seams burst open

                              and your clothes fall off.








                         ALL CREATION URGES HER...


                         She plays with deer,

                         greeting them

                         when they wake in morning's confusions.

                         Groggy with deer dreams

                         their huge, earth eyes

                         gaze through her still form,

                         unafraid of a loving soul.

                         Hummingbirds search

                         the back of her eyes

                         for daylight,

                         for windows to hummingbird heaven.

                         Whenever she moves like freedom

                         and speaks its magical words,

                         all the darkness of the world

                         cannot extinguish her

                         anymore than it can

                         put out bird song.

                         And whenever she feels freedom

                         and love wells up fresh

                         in her body                  

                         she takes another small step

                         towards the land

                         of constant miracles

                         as all creation

                         urges her on...





                         KNOW, THERE IS ALWAYS A WELCOME

                         AS NATURAL AS SONG


                         If you desire,

                         there is a door of sunshine

                         where human laughter

                         blends with bird song

                         and the quiet eye moves

                         like deer move in evening


                         If you would leap like a gazelle

                         through the blue brush of morning

                         into the heart of this dawn,

                         for years your unfoldment

                         shall be celebrated

                         in song:

                         like the old men spoke to the young ones

                         around tribal fires,

                         like the women sang together

                         as they wove the straw,

                         the pine needles,

                         the threads of hearts,

                         the souls of their children.

                         Such is the gift offered

                         for no reason

                         other than the movements and mysteries

                         of inexplicable love

                         creating soul.

                         Such is the natural freedom

                         of friendship growing green

                         in artistry and peace.

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