To you who who have searched and did not find
we are one
To those who have been lost
we are one
To you who through searching for love have
lost your identities to a ruthless society
we are one
to you who you would rather ignore
tommorrow call
we are one
To you who lost herself on the pavements of happiness
To those who found a haven in the arms of now ,
we are one
There is a home for us ,there has to be.

I've created scenarios around my eventual death,
sometimes a swan-like Camille in her finest performancec,
sometimes a fistful of shout like Eleni, "for my children".

I know nothing for sure, and each day
brings me to the cold rapture of sky--
Basho's poem and its scorpion sting.

Dying into this. Dying into this.

Splash.

Flip out life's begun
when you're seventy one,
nothing's "not done,"
you can eat how you like, wear what you like,
if you like,
kick all the traces, go out on a binge,
roll all around in the bed,
there's no one to scold
because you're so old,
all the powers that be are now dead.

         Horizon

             II

  this

     \

                    fix

                    /

 to

   \

                  mind

                    /

   of

     \

                   heap

                    /

steep

     \

                    this

                    /

  up

    \

                   way

                    /

 the

    \

                  make

                    /

 once

     \

All somber, those who stand around
this wound cut deep into the ground
beside a box so square and stout
as if they fear you might get out
but from this casket there's no sound.

The preacher murmurs on unheard.
My attention's fixed upon a bird,
a hawk soaring nearly out of sight
within a sky so clear and bright
as if nothing special had occurred.

After moribund years of misery
An exerting care cautiously put
To seek fellowship in the sanctuary
And rest my burden with open door
A querying way asked the why
Not obliged to give a try
But for the gratitude and respect
Troubled self bereft of answers
For the tools to tackle the mundane

cargo lithe
this spirit flesh
evolution
excites like a winter surge

rakish falls the day behind
drab torn fountian clouds
cold and pallid

pour the fire from decanters
throat
and let slip ambrosia
passage

Tottensonnetag

let night find us
drowsy with angel touch
let the black winged wind
play its orchestra

and the moon shall ferry
the lost

I love you
only because angels have wings
and death is too heavy to carry
the remembering,

we fly
you and I,
old soldiers clashing now and then
on the battlefield of perception,
fucking age from our bodies,
wild with monsoons, cherry blossoms
and the savage moon

Death and the soliloquy, turn a blind eye.
Side the heavens till morn, ever riding...
The hills converse a warning;
Eternity’s change of robes, fray,
Friar’s tongue decays to feed the rising earth.
Water of the sea ascend, frothing, vaporising,
Hues to view prismatic reality.
Survival of the fit, write to dust
Which hardens to stone,
Hence weathered lessons and eroded teachings,
Meet the sea, ascend once more and again

I remember Kruschev pounding his shoe at the UN,
the heckler throwing his at Bush,
it's a good thing some folks have shoes
it's a better thing to know the shoes of the fisherman
are on loan to anyone who will wear them.

The scorpion's nature is to sting
the frog that would carry him across the lake,

Both die in the end.