Filed opened, 4/16/94


                    Poetry Index


                    A DREAM AMONGST DREAMS

                    AFTER THE THIRD FLOWER'S GIVEN

                    ANOTHER DAY


                    A PRAYER FOR OUR ART

                    AFTER A SHEKINAH IN CHURCH

                    AT THE LIP OF A NEW VENTURE - A FRESH


                    AWE AND COMPASSION














                    INITIATION - EASTER AFTERMATH - 1994



                    LIMITS AND NO LIMITS






                    NEW CREATION




                    ON THE HOLY FOOL




                    REAL WHOLENESS






                    THE DEEP MOVES SLOWLY...

                    THERE IS

                    THREE BRAIDED CHORDS

                    THREE METAPHORS OF WHAT WE ARE

                    TO THE PURE, ALL IS PURE

                    TWO SPECIES



                    WE LIVE WITHIN TWO WORLDS

                    WHEN THE LORD ASCENDED ON HIGH


                    WORDS THAT CAME IN A DREAM



                    Last poem: AFTER THE THIRD FLOWER'S GIVEN





                    A PRAYER FOR OUR ART


                    Let our art, in the gracious goodness

                    of our Lord and in the expansive wonders

                    of His domain,

                    attain to such clarity and color,

                    such simple luminosity,

                    such rich texture of soul,

                    such groundedness in the earth,

                    (let the trees and the rocks sing),

                    such flight of spirit in the heavens,

                    (fluid with wind and wings),

                    such holy powers of expression,

                    that it pierces every human heart with light!

                    Let our art, in the gracious goodness

                    of our Lord and in the expansive wonders

                    of His domain,

                    attain to such a love of all Creation

                    for the great Maker's sake,

                    that there be no end to its creative diversities

                    in a constant renewal of inspired illuminations.






                    THREE BRAIDED CHORDS


                    Meister Eckhart, through night and day,

                    leads the mind to its fuller way;

                    old man Heschel, seizing plunder,

                    unveils the treasure chest of wonder;

                    and Francis, merciful and free,

                    reveals a singing poverty!

                    Each saint bears a gift to give

                    which in its force is purgative,

                    enhancing each a vital part

                    of the green and growing heart.









                         AFTER A SHEKINAH IN CHURCH


                         As the people pour the power

                         of the Spirit out

                         in praise and love,

                         a sweetness fills the air

                         as a soft, white cloud appears

                         just beyond the range of sight.

                         The whole room is alive with God!


                         How then shall it be

                         when all people

                         let God's fluid love

                         pour through them

                         into every canyon, upon every hill

                         and over the wild seas

                         of Earth?






                         AWE AND COMPASSION

                         (Two covenants)  




                         First, a common bush at Horeb burned

                         and a voice spoke, "Do not come near!

                         Remove the sandals from your feet

                         for the place you are standing

                         is Holy ground."

                         Then, the next time around,

                         an entire mountain burned.

                         And the voice came with trumpets

                         which were so loud that a whole nation trembled

                         and stood afar off.

                         Moses alone was called up into the smoke and fire.




                         First, the Son of God

                         burned with purity, his fierce dignity

                         clothed in the rough spun clothes

                         of the poor. Light shone!

                         And He said, "Come unto me

                         all you who are heavy laden..."

                         And every place they stood with Him

                         was Holy ground.

                         Then, many people burned

                         and their voices were like trumpets

                         sounding in many tongues

                         which grew so loud the whole world was called near.

                         And all the people went up into clouds

                         one by one.







                    WHEN THE LORD ASCENDED ON HIGH


                    When the Lord ascended on high Creation bowed down

                    and adored. Who could resist the sight of the

                    Lord's splendor shining in the face of the risen

                    Christ? Pan and all his host worshiped. The fairy's

                    danced in rings of delight. Gnomes rattled their

                    bones in slow gnome dances beneath the earth. Tree

                    Sprites drew up watery joy from the deep and spewed

                    it into the shimmering sky. Plant angels, rock

                    angels, sea angels, sky angels praised with fervent

                    delight, for they believed that this was the

                    beginning of that holy dream of God the prophets

                    had dreamt: lions lying down with lambs, leopards

                    sleeping amidst the deer.


                    But man was not ready to understand the works of

                    the Most High, nor to embrace His freedom. So they

                    divided up powers of authority, built institutions,

                    invented and emphasized sacred rituals to sanctify

                    and solidify a priesthood's control and thereby

                    took terrible truth from the people.


                    Set free from the fear of death and enslavement to

                    the dark predatory powers innately woven into the

                    elements, these people of the new light never

                    turned back in the great powers of Holy Love to

                    bless and loose Creation into God's freedom. But

                    they used their energies to invent machines and

                    systems and worshiped the works of their hands.

                    Instead of simplicity and wonder, comfort and

                    profit became the bywords. They plundered Creation

                    and turned the mysterious soul of man itself into a



                    The system sucked life out of all things and filled

                    its greatest servants with vast powers of

                    corruption. But the Lord was not without his

                    witnesses! The Spirit of God circulated through

                    the shadows of the age. Candles were lit in human

                    hearts, small, communal bonfires sprang up in the

                    night. Through pain and sorrow children of the

                    Spirit were born and strove to know that to fully

                    sing truth they must pour God's luscious light out

                    freely upon all living things.


                    Birds felt the praises of God and drew near to

                    sing. Weary trees adored and quivered from their

                    roots to the tips of their twigs with slow

                    ecstasies of life. The mountains skipped like rams,

                    the little hills like lambs, as the light of the

                    Kingdom grew, here a little, there a little,

                    growing, growing, growing on, until all the

                    crumbling forces of corruption were powerless to








                         CARRIED BY THE WIND AND MOON AWAY


                         When I was but a tiny boy,

                         I was carried by the wind and moon away,

                         to where my joy they did destroy

                         before I had begun the play.


                         And so, I grew into a lad

                         who--carried by the wind and moon away--

                         remained half mad with sorrows, sad

                         and shadowed by the light of day.


                         Then I married, and both, it seemed,

                         were carried by the wind and moon away

                         into a dark we never dreamt

                         could be... and yet it sadly seemed

                         both light and dark all mixed with gray

                         --more grieved was I than I could say.


                         Through death I birthed a song well pleased

                         to be carried by the wind and moon away,

                         and be sung by birds in distant trees

                         with words which only birds can say.


                         A song is such as lives forever,

                         to make the little children play,

                         though flesh shall fail, a song fails never...

                         through carried by the wind and moon away.







                         Within God's own sweet passion's yearning

                         springs forth a hot and holy burning

                         heat upon each hidden seed

                         encased within its dark of need.

                         And there God broods and bakes and warms,

                         softening seed's hard fear of harm

                         until they crack and open wide:

                         Behold, a floral flame inside!








                    TWO SPECIES


                    God has countless Pios

                    who love and serve his cause,

                    and countless Lillys twirling in His name.

                    Some are those who wear the cloaks of flesh

                    while others, free and naked as a flame,

                    keep more fully to the higher laws--

                    but all, love their gifts to bring

                    and in His beauty, serve and sing.










                    It seems time

                    to incarnate the dream

                    so many strove to incarnate:

                    souls with hot coals in their eyes,

                    driven by high dreams,

                    stripped by flaming dreams

                    longing to be born.

                    People who shattered their flesh

                    to let light break through,

                    pressing pieces of their bodies upon pages:

                    hair, eyes, skin, splinters of nails,

                    a fragment of a nose, pasted with blood

                    that others might read their entrails

                    --so driven by reality's hunger to be real!

                    Pilgrims, prophets, wild-eyed poets

                    unable to embrace

                    anything less than life

                    in the nakedness of fire!

                    How blessed am I

                    to suffer so little to slowly transform

                    into something small,

                    but real! within their poem.

                    It is heaven's pure gifting,

                    a boundless grace!

                    because, sovereignly, by the

                    inerrant clock of the stars,

                    there is an unmitigated rising

                    of earth's fire

                    through a massive weight of the dark

                    to meet falling, feathery winds of flame

                    from the sky--

                    IT IS GOD'S TIME for Spirit to be born!







                         LIMITS AND NO LIMITS


                         What can I share with you?

                         Only Spirit...

                         Only a certain fluid color

                         in the brain.










                    (After reading Denise Levertov's

                    "The Embroidery" again)


                    Oh God, my longing returns...

                    And with it my soul slowly climbs out

                    of cluttered cities

                    where numbers and things abound.

                    It is a poem about two woman and a bear:

                    It is the day-woman and the night-woman

                    living at last together

                    in one small cottage,

                    tending one garden beneath one sky;

                    it is the rough, old, rogue bear

                    we thought we could cage

                    and teach to dance our cultured steps.

                    He has broken his bridle

                    and returned to the wild.

                    Yet, being fully free,

                    he may come whenever he wills,

                    foraging through the garden,

                    and filling their house by night

                    with the fragrance of black forests

                    in the mystery of his fur.

                    I think of these three,

                    and dimly sense a distant gold and blue--

                    and then, something of the deep wonder of stars!

                    The vibrations of cataracts

                    one can feel in river stones

                    shake my bones! 

                    I sense faint firelight again

                    in the core of my mind

                    and smell some kind of honey in an emotional wind.

                    This is the endowment

                    of something real within

                    longing to be poured into realities.

                    It is a slow movement of a childlike thing,

                    the pure essences

                    which live in God's brain.

                    My heart longs to dilate to the warmth

                    of a spacious wind blowing through:

                    but it shall take time

                    for my scattered energies to return

                    until I can vividly dream again

                    of these two woman embracing in bed,

                    slowly melting into a luminous bride

                    as the bear, with its terrible claws,

                    tears open its own skin

                    to loose the beautiful bridegroom.











        THERE IS


        In Christ our Lord

        there is a fire of love which burns in quiet places

        of the heart;

        there is a depth that is the essence of simplicity;

        there is an deepening tenderness which only seems to come

        through great pain;

        there is an opening wonder of a continual presence.











                   TO THE PURE, ALL IS PURE


                   In God, all is pure, all clean.

                   The warm human fragrances of the body

                   are rich in His Holy Spirit.

                   We must discover this

                   within the boundaries of His love

                   as we become real:

                   The body has spiritual essences too!

                   They are of green grasses, the warm breath of cows,

                   milk and fire, rose petals and stone.

                   Sexual energies are holy!

                   They are the free essences of pure creative ecstasies.

                   They are laughter, and release,

                   they are the dance of intertwining,

                   and a long rest in soft down.

                   Man essences blend with woman essences.

                   Life is born in the mind,

                   beauty is born in lush feelings,

                   baby's are born to incarnate wonders.

                   It is in God that all is pure and clean again!

                   Yet, no one can seize this pure, Holy one,

                   nor press themselves through His gates

                   by the will or force of unclean spirits:

                   anger, fear, or selfish abuse.

                   The Holy one we all long for is free in flames,

                   and only those who yield themselves wholly into His fire

                   can know His freedom--it is similar to the wind...

                   Do not be afraid,

                   it is only our bondages--powerfully lusting to live!--

                   which burn away.

                   Then, all the life we have longed for

                   spills back upon us,

                   runs through us like water,

                   delights body and spirit,

                   fills the soul with colors,

                   makes the deep heart laugh.








                    The inspiration is given for a reason.

                    "I am what I am," (said Popeye the sailor).

                    It is God who has molded me

                    in little tin boxes from beyond the mountains

                    of Armenia...

                    and who has washed me

                    from clear glass vases,

                    whose silver waters were poured

                    over naked loins in the Mediterranean sea.

                    Trust His wisdom. Trust His gifts.

                    Fly on great wings to the doors of Alaba.

                    Knock... Speak Life-words, Spirit words!

                    Fall back!

                    The magic doors may crush you

                    when they open.







                    AT THE LIP OF A NEW VENTURE - A FRESH



                    Would that all who have gently opened to the light,

                    (those who have found

                    heaven and earth mingled in luminous joy

                    amidst the dark),

                    might let this light become song through their souls.


                    I dream right now, that like St. John the Baptist,

                    my song might cry out in this chaotic wilderness

                    which, in the travail of death and birth,

                    churns under the surfaces of things.


                    I would write songs

                    into a book of word songs

                    --a deeper kind of music

                    which would lead beyond itself

                    in the sweet music of thought

                    and lush awakening of feelings,

                    down to the pure light Himself,

                    into His spontaneous joy

                    and the murmuring silences

                    of Her wild, harmonious love.


                    I would write for the hidden Lilly

                    --being free of the appearances of beauty--

                    to love the golden haired woman,

                    that bride of the high, hidden king,

                    who laughs and weeps to me

                    out of the dark of every human heart.


                    And I would follow the path of words

                    which have flowed out of opening hearts,

                    and passing through the power

                    of well-woven words

                    taste the confectioneries of the trees and sky!

                    Thus, I shall study to stay alive

                    by eating those unfathomable glories

                    found in every common thing.


                    I am now in a vast boarding school that births singers.

                    Its campus extends from the stars to the stars;

                    its great hall stands at the center of the human heart.

                    It is the ancient meeting hall of day and night

                    with walls made of clearest glass

                    reflecting millions of shifting faces:

                    humans, raccoons, bears and deer...

                    and images of thunderous seas and waterfalls.

                    It is the most sacred building known to God or man.


                    And, carved on a great stone lintel over its doors

                    are these words:

                    "Deeper than the singer is the poet,

                    and deeper than the poet is the Son,

                    and deeper than the Son

                    is the wild, pure, Holy One."







                    A DREAM AMONGST DREAMS


                    I had a dream. I stood in a pool upon which floated 

                    a thin gossamer of moss.

                    With a small reed (like the Piper in Blake's poem),

                    I wrote my poems upon the waters.

                    Two writings floated to the shore where two men sat.

                    They stretched forth their arms

                    and the writings floated up upon them,

                    transforming into fluttering moths

                    which covered their arms and chests

                    with patterns of words.

                    Their faces became joyous!

                    One man entered a small hut 

                    teetering upon the far edge of a narrow abyss.

                    His family stood to watch him,

                    protected by low walls

                    which kept them back from the danger

                    of the chasm.

                    Out of the abyss butterflies steamed forth

                    and covered the man. Caterpillars were carried

                    in the up surging life of frail wings

                    and showered down upon him.

                    His eyes were glittering.

                    I opened a gate and sat calmly upon

                    the edge of the cliff,


                    observing the ecstasy unfolding.





                    WORDS THAT CAME IN A DREAM


                    Wisdom comes from practically no one in the world

                    except the unconstrained and easily confounded.






                    Wisdom is a rare thing,

                    being unconstrained

                    and easily confounded.

                    It comes from practically no one in the world

                    --yet is pouring forth from all things!

                    It is like writing poems in filaments of moss

                    floating on the waters.

                    It is words, like butterflies,

                    streaming up out of a great abyss.






                         REDEEMING A PICTURE OF BEAUTY


                         You are beautiful

                         because you are sexual

                         in the fuller way:

                         with deep feelings of wonder,

                         a childlike, open innocence,

                         the steaming forth of spontaneous joy!

                         Your energies swirl

                         like wild hair about your face,

                         whirling out of your beautiful body

                         which you have mastered,

                         trained, made free,

                         so that you may both laugh and play

                         like any free child,

                         then turn suddenly to silence and discipline

                         if you choose to stay up, night after night,

                         --sleepless, weary, raw--

                         that you might paint masterpieces

                         upon bathroom walls.












                   An hour of turning is upon the world,

                   death and transformation,

                   devils and angels close at hand.

                   Therefore we must be lighting up our lamps,

                   radically forgiving ourselves our humanity,

                   digging down to the roots,

                   befriending our little lost child of the night,

                   embracing all the warm, humanness

                   which makes us the unique creature we are:

                   half of us a beloved animal,

                   half of us a beloved child of the stars.

                   I must say to you, (as I say to my own soul),

                   "Be opening! Dance your soul awake!

                   Stand against, not with, your inner resistance,

                   --it is within us all!

                   Seek for the opening words

                   which create an opening spirit.

                   Be becoming... and, sing it!

                   When we become infectious with joyous life,

                   when we become so tenderhearted we ache,

                   we are just beginning to realize

                   what it is to become disciples

                   of the Great God our Maker

                   --He who is the overflowing, lush abundance

                   of liquid light.






                        EASTER AFTERMATH - 1994


                        He saw a blue heron,

                        harbinger of newness,

                        silent bird of nobility and peace.


                        The little red haired boy,

                        who cringed at the undefined voice

                        of a shadowed woman

                        in the deeper woods,

                        must be gathered

                        into a workshop

                        where leathery hands

                        carve beautiful bowls

                        from gnarled tree burls.

                        An ancient, silver sword

                        hangs in a tattered, rawhide sheath

                        on the wall

                        awaiting his hands.

                        It takes the courage of great kings

                        to draw that blade.

                        There is a witch

                        whose head must be taken from her shoulders;

                        a tight knot in the midst of the bowls

                        which must be undone.


                        To be a man you must cry unto the winds

                        through the windows of your soul;

                        you must pour your being out into Being.


                        Blue herons

                        are often found in the company of eagles

                        circling over the carcasses of enchanters,

                        mediums and other meddlers of the brain.


                        It is written somewhere, on a great stone,

                        that the greatest passion

                        sometimes arises out of disgust.


                        A wild child leaps forth to seize the sword

                        and do the dreadful deed.

                        The vile woman falls;

                        a goddess falls;

                        the black voice falls

                        like a hungry raven from the night skies.


                        From her broken body springs

                        a golden haired girl who shakes her hair

                        and laughs. She holds a golden key in her hand

                        and runs to open many doors hidden in a dark hall.

                        Sea winds sweep through full of brine

                        and songs born from the deep reveries of whales;

                        golden light pours in to splash a silent violence

                        upon the walls;

                        feathers flash...

                        walls crumble down

                        and reveal vast fields of flowers.


                        A wild little red haired boy I once knew

                        laughs at the golden haired girl,

                        tears off his clothes

                        and runs out alone into the fields of pure color.

                        The little girl leaps with joy,

                        passionately loving such displays of freedom.


                        She casts off her clothes and runs out to seek him.

                        Finding him, they dance and embrace.

                        Their bodies melt together and fall into the flowers.

                        From that sacred place

                        arises a solitary man.


                                                    for Nathan








                    THE DEEP MOVES SLOWLY...


                    The deep moves slowly...

                    the matters of the heart

                    move like great whales

                    slumbering in a slow drift

                    of cold currents amidst the black deep,

                    dreaming their shadowy whale dreams

                    first conceived by whale ancestors

                    when the world was still young.

                    The deep moves slowly...

                    the matters of the heart

                    like great whales

                    arising to sing their plaintive pleadings

                    in expansive echoes

                    through the blue deep

                    where intricate whale song is born:

                    the amazing falsetto of birds

                    bursting from huge resonant cavities;

                    the bass throb of a monstrous drum

                    embosomed somewhere in a whale's belly.

                    Here, in the sea's middle world,

                    whale games are conceived in secrecy.


                    The deep moves slowly...

                    the matters of the heart,

                    like cumbrous whales arise,

                    until at last, breaking surface,

                    they thrust festive

                    spumes of spray into sea air

                    and with briney breath

                    drink the sky.

                    Here, on the immense surface

                    of the world of the sea

                    where man organizes his armadas,

                    strains his muscles to pull in fat, round tuna

                    and gather sleek herring into his nets,

                    these monstrous, ancient whale brothers

                    are met with children's squeals of wonder--

                    or the pitiless, swift harpoon

                    which makes all mystery

                    a commodity.



                    I have often slaughtered with anxious intent

                    my prodigious dreams

                    which surface to breathe...

                    those potent old dreams

                    which have laid long in the dark,

                    murmuring their mysterious images

                    into the sleeping mind,

                    calling the soul back to its ancient work:

                    to venerate the stars, and the cragged floor of the seas

                    with words--

                    lightning fast, blue-backed, sea-words!

                    which, like Christ's own keys,

                    unlock monstrous, slow feelings

                    which move the mind down

                    into its depths

                    like a gigantic, lumbering whale

                    which growing weary of all surface sport, sighs,

                    and rolls its immense bulk over

                    to arc its great head down,

                    plunging suddenly down,

                    releasing its colossal weight

                    to the immutable draw of the sea,

                    plummeting, drifting






                    into the















                         ANOTHER DAY


                         Every day is a new creation

                         flowing out from the holy sea,

                         the radiance of light

                         deep in the shadows

                         of flesh.

                         A river flows.

                         It is time, unrelentingly flowing

                         on. As untamable as wind,

                         carrying the soul

                         through countless changes

                         onto its full destiny.

                         We can sense the deeper destiny,

                         when the intuition is free to speak

                         in imagination's imageries;

                         then we shall find no flaws,

                         make no judgments,

                         concerning the days and nights

                         of mortal men

                         who weave the distorted dreams

                         of their spirit-barren hearts

                         into stone and steel.

                         Even the vilest fancy,

                         even the most garish lie

                         will cause the soul's praise

                         of that deeper vision

                         which shoots sparks

                         up into eyes

                         and breathes silently

                         beneath countless empty words

                         which crowd the living air.







                         We are to come down low

                         on the earth, into the grasses,

                         to smell the horses and the flowers.

                         The order is repose.

                         When the wilderness comes upon us,

                         --and the wilderness blooms!—

                         the soul offers its open, quieted heart

                         and God flows in singing His shy songs of love.

                         Birds gather around, sensing His song.

                         Rabbits come bounding across fields

                         seeking out the subtle light they feel.

                         The grasses stir at our feet:

                         it is a mole, our blind brother

                         who longs to let some song

                         slip down into his dark.










                         THREE METAPHORS OF WHAT WE ARE


                         We are the wilderness

                         offered to God

                         that He might make us bloom.

                         His rivers rapidly roll

                         down upon us.

                         Water sizzles out over hot plains.

                         Ancient seeds soak.

                         The wash of water swells them to bursting.

                         A green unfolds.

                         Passionate flames of flowers open.


                         We are the deep, dim pools

                         offered to God

                         to be made luminous with light.

                         The water quiets and sediments settle:

                         those impure burdens

                         clouding miraculous souls.

                         His energies swirl.

                         A vortex is formed.

                         We fall into our own waters

                         and sink down

                         to the ecstasies at our source:

                         Deep artesian springs open.

                         The waters which arises through our water

                         are warm, and shimmering with light.


                         We are the flower

                         receiving the ecstasy of the bee,

                         and we are the bee that must buzz out

                         bearing pollen.









                         GOD'S OWN DANCE SHALL SAVE THE WORLD


                         When God utters his little sparrow words,

                         like piccolo trills in the trees,

                         or His great resonant whale words

                         in the word-packed seas,

                         He spins in a slow eternal dance.

                         The currents of His robes,

                         (by design, or chance),

                         like solar winds move

                         through the ethers down into the core of a man,

                         stirring Him with love

                         --through a wordless instinct--

                         into a slow, sacred dance...











                    Painting is writing with light

                    the light of the outer, natural world

                    to inform the light of the spirit.

                    Music, is writing beauty and deep feeling with sound.

                    Poetry is writing into the imaginative powers of the mind

                    the light of the spiritual world

                    with the rhythms and sounds

                    of the meaning of words.








                    ON THE HOLY FOOL


                    All powers spin by their own law:

                    I journeyed forth, all things I saw

                    said, "We wait for that higher rule

                    of love within a holy fool."


                    And then I knew, that I must be

                    God's fool, that He through me might free

                    a person here, another there,

                    and splatter fire through the air.










                To share the ecstasy of God's beauty with others:

                soul open to soul, spirit tasting spirit

                with all agendas of greed

                resolutely nailed to the sacred tree;

                to release the wonder of the other

                in the unfolding wonder of blessed self...

                in the opening influences that are rivers

                of holy grace. These things

                are the meaning of communion,

                of fellowship in spirit and truth.

                Then, after the rapture of revelation, rest...

                To lie down together in the undulating silence

                of dark seas which surround us,

                to stretch out your soul

                with a kindred soul

                upon the warm currents of wordlessness

                and blindly drink of love.










                When you kneel by faith to utter a heart-felt prayer,

                an unseen golden light softly encompasses your being.

                When your heart, by faith, whispers,

                "Thank you Father for everything,

                even my worst pain and confusion,

                I trust you to work

                all things for eternal good within my soul,"

                then, unheard by your mortal ears

                angels begin singing above your head.

                "Honor and glory be yours," they cry,

                "Oh beautiful Lord of saving graces!"

                When you touch a suffering soul with a kind word,

                or a song of hope,

                when you listen deeply enough to hear

                the anguish of a soul stuck

                in the dark of their pain,

                then God flies by on a flaming chariot

                shouting, "Oh wondrous love!"

                and rains his tears

                upon the fields of heaven.





                REAL WHOLENESS


                In our brokenness

                we must stay in touch with His loving grace;

                and in our state of gracious blessedness

                we must stay in touch with our brokenness.






                        NEW CREATION

                        (Verses On Integration)



                        The writer births

                        spiritual vision

                        into a living echo

                        of its inherent movement and form

                        that it may be conceptualized

                        and celebrated.

                        The singer sings

                        because his vision sings.



                        Let the writer define the song

                        and meaning of the singer;

                        let the singer sing

                        to incarnate his dream.



                        The wordsmith learns to sing

                        as his vision sings.

                        The singer learns to write

                        to clarify the incarnation.



                        The writer and the singer are one.







                        WE LIVE WITHIN TWO WORLDS


                        We live within two worlds.

                        So it is. So it must be.

                        To walk freely,

                        without internal conflict,

                        from one world

                        --sensual, and rational--

                        unto the other

                        --contemplative and holy--

                        is to find the third wondrous world:

                        beautiful and compassionate,

                        sensual and spiritual,

                        concrete and free.

                        From this third world

                        a inner river flows out—

                        recreating everything!






                         AFTER THE THIRD FLOWER'S GIVEN


                         The third flower given

                         and the night unfolds its flowers.

                         Lions prowl in the trees,

                         showing only their glinting eyes

                         and shadows of huge manes;

                         One can feel their massive

                         shoulders rolling under their hides.

                         Lions, even when they hunt in prides,

                         hunt alone!

                         There is a tearing of lion claws

                         in the deep fabric of the soul:

                         Dark, dreadful eyes peer through.